Chapter Text
Crickets chirp lowly in the quiet of the night, still holding out their songs for the last dragging days of summer's end. Their calls are lethargic, slowing every day, fewer and fewer as the fall ever steadily approaches with its bitter winds and choking, cold hands. But for now, the late September air looms still and unusually heavy, hanging humid over the forest and pressing over the trees with a thick blanket of anticipation.
Something is amiss; the night creatures are eerily silent, alert. Waiting.
Crack!
The sound splits through a clearing in the trees like a gunshot, startling a nest of sparrows, who tear up toward the sky in a flutter of panicked wings. A crow caws from its perch, watching.
The next crack rings out just as piercingly. Trees rustle and shake, signaling the approach of something strong, something sinister. The crow caws again and its fellow joins it, then another, and another, until the whole clearing is alight with the shouts of excited scavengers. They drown out the next series of cracks and pops, but they don't quite quell the strained human cries that follow.
A middle-aged man in a beige trench coat stumbles into the clearing, falling almost immediately into the empty space on his hands and knees. His brown hair is wild and dirty, his button down spattered starkly with blood, his trench coat torn in many places and smeared with grime.
The crows quiet down to a chittering caw here and there, but they fix their beady eyes on him, expectant.
He pants, catching his breath for a few moments before he raises his head wearily, taking in his surroundings. His eyes stop on a lighted sign that rises high above the trees a distance away, a beacon emblazoned with a little half-sun and the words gas-n-sip on a bright red background. It's the only landmark he has.
He heaves himself up at long last, legs uncooperative beneath his weight, and leans against the nearest tree before he can fall a second time. Swaying, he blinks down at himself, flexing his fingers. Then he drags a hand across his mouth, grimacing when it comes away bloody.
"No… oh, no," he groans. He reaches his other hand inside his coat and fishes for something, but doesn't seem to find whatever it is he's looking for.
The man in the beige trench coat sighs and regards the clouds, clear blue eyes searching the heavens as if in supplication.
Another crack ! and the man's body jerks, face spasming with pain. His back bows forward, and he falls to all fours once more.
The crows watch him, silent, now.
12 HOURS EARLIER
"You know, if you wanted to sit this one out, I wouldn't blame you."
Miles and miles of rolling green hills, just starting to yellow in late September's dying sun, stretch out in all directions to encompass them in Kansas countryside. The rumble of the road from the inside of the Impala while it flies down Highway 36 is a gentle, familiar comfort that lets Dean's mind wander and calms the ever-present restlessness that seems to have made its permanent home in his bones lately.
Or, at least, it was a gentle familiar comfort, until his over-empathetic brother opened his mouth.
Dean scowls at the road, one hand gripping the steering wheel a little too tightly. His mind goes straight to the livid scar on his forearm that's currently hidden, dormant under layers of flannel and canvas. He's been trying not to think about it, for just this once. "We're already almost there, Sammy,” he says, his tone coming out lighter than he feels. “A little late for playing hooky, dontcha think?"
"Dean, Belleville is only an hour out. If we turn around—"
"Then what? We waste gas for no reason, I sit around in the bunker and pretend that reading research from old men who have the staff of Moses up their ass is my favorite pastime?" Dean snaps. "Thanks, I think I'll pass."
Sam quiets, and Dean feels a pang of guilt filter through the unshakable front he's been keeping up for the last few weeks. Sam hasn't been tiptoeing around him like he's a landmine for no reason; the memory of Dean going darkside is still a little too fresh in both their minds.
"This is a milk run, Sammy," he says, more gently. "It's practically in our backyard. We'll be in and out in a couple days, tops."
When Sam still doesn't answer, Dean internally swears at himself for ruining the good mood and changes the subject."Give me some more details about the case."
Sam sighs, the lecture Dean knows he’s keeping back almost audible in the following silence, but he dutifully flips the cover of his iPad open on his lap and finds the case file he put together this morning.
"Three victims in the last two days. First is 27 year old Sandy Duvall, found dead just outside town after her roommate Shelly said she didn't come home," Sam rattles off in the procedural tone he gets when he's presenting his research. "The second, Jackson Nichols, 52, also didn't come home. He was a groundskeeper at the Elstree House Bed and Breakfast just outside town— body found yesterday in the hedges by hotel staff."
"Assaulted coming home from work," Dean muses.
"Didn't even make it to his car, looks like." Sam scrolls to a new page. "Third was found in the park last night. Danika Lloyd, 19. No immediate connections between the vics. All three bodies were ripped to shreds, parts missing… The article is pretty vague. They're blaming it all on animal attacks."
"'Course. What kinda animal they going with?"
Sam's lips twitch. "Coyote."
"Let me guess, he was going after all the roadrunners in town," Dean scoffs. "So, what are we thinking? Rugaru?"
"Most likely." Sam nods absently as he pores over the rest of the article. "Get this,” he goes on. "Howard Grady, age 69—" ("Nice," Dean interjects), "—was also reported missing three nights ago, the day before the first body was found." Sam gives Dean a scathing look and slaps the iPad's cover closed.
"So, what, he's our guy?"
"I think so," Sam agrees, shrugging. "He'd be a really late bloomer for a rugaru. But it's not unheard of."
Dean grins. "See? What did I say, Sammy? We'll be in and out like we were never even there. Milk run."
Silence falls in the Impala, and it's not quite companionable, but Dean will take it. He lets himself settle into the soothing sounds of the road once more. It's nice to be back on an insignificant case with his brother, one without the threat of the world ending or some other cosmic danger looming over their heads. Even the Mark doesn't seem to be affecting him as much when he's at his prime like this, leaning back in the driver's seat of his Baby and gazing out at the surrounding expanse of sprawling farmland, savoring the moment.
"I talked to Cas this morning," Sam says conversationally, shattering the stillness.
Instantly, the image of the last time they saw each other comes to Dean's mind: Cas wrapping his arms in a vice grip around Dean's middle, Dean struggling against him, black-eyed and desperate to kill. Worse still is the memory of Cas appearing in Dean’s room and explaining that he has "a female in the car" that he has to get back to, leaving and not bothering to call again. He's been absent for some weeks now, not to mention radio silent.
Dean glances to the passenger seat and takes in his brother's open, faux-innocent expression. He grits his teeth. "Okay."
"Apparently he's not working with Hannah anymore."
Dean makes himself relax and aims for nonchalance, because really, this isn't his business. Or Sam's, for that matter. Cas can do what he wants. "That angel chick?"
"Yeah. She went back to Heaven, I guess. He didn't say much about it."
"Hmm," Dean grunts with finality. He gives his attention back to the road, turning pointedly away from Sam and officially determining this weirdly uncomfortable conversation over.
Sam doesn't get the memo. "I asked if he'd want to come help us on a case, but he, ah, said he was busy."
Dean takes an impatient breath. "Well, yeah. Dude's probably got a lot of important shit going on right now. Angel shit." He gestures out into the landscape, scowling, and if his tone comes off a little bitter, well, sue him. "Probably a lot more important than going with us on some one-off rugaru case, even if Heaven’s quiet right now. This is nothing! Probably doesn't even register on angel radar."
" Probably ," Sam echoes, and he sounds like he's trying not to be amused at some private joke, suddenly. His features are smooth and unassuming to anyone who hasn't spent every day of the last ten years jam packed into a car or a shitty motel with the guy, but Dean can clearly tell he's fighting a smile.
Dean glowers at him. "What?"
Sam shakes his head. "Nothing."
"Really? Come on, man. Spit it out."
Sam deliberates. "...You know, the high schoolers would be loving this right now. Jealous Dean. If they wanted—"
Dean cuts him off immediately. "Nope. Shut up. Forget I asked."
And they drive in silence, Sam casually putting a hand up to his face to hide his smile.
"Sheriff, I'm Agent Feldman. This is my partner, Agent Newlander.”
Dean holds his hand out and a stocky but very tired man in a brown uniform takes it, squeezing only gently before moving on to Sam’s. “Agents,” he addresses them gruffly, and jerks his thumb back to his office. Sam and Dean follow him through the quiet Belleville police station, entering a door that has SHERIFF ULLMAN emblazoned across its frosted glass pane.
They take their seats in Ullman’s clean, orderly office and wait as he lumbers around the side of his desk and finally sinks down with a bone-deep sigh. His chair creaks as he leans it back in it to study them. “You’re here about the murders.”
“Murders?” Sam asks with surprise. “I thought the newspapers said it was a coyote.”
“Sure did. Had to print somethin' for the people to read, you understand.” Ullman pulls open a drawer and produces two crisp file folders, tossing them onto the desk. Neither Winchester reaches for them, but Dean leans forward in his seat in anticipation. “I knew word would get out sooner or later. Shouldn’t be surprised that y’all were so quick in gettin’ here, what with the first one of you boys in here yesterday askin’ questions.”
Sam and Dean exchange a glance. If an FBI agent has already been here, the chances are high that it's another hunter who beat them to the case. And if so, they might not be friendly. Most hunters know the Winchesters have this area covered.
"...Right," Dean says carefully. "So, you can understand why we're concerned about this, uh… situation."
"Please— we'd like to hear what you have," Sam adds.
The Sheriff nods, takes a steeling breath, and opens the first file. On top of a thin stack of papers rests a photo of a smiling dark haired woman in her mid-thirties, reclining with her arms out on a park bench. Next to hers is a picture of a middle-aged man with graying hair and a set of severe, arched eyebrows, and the final image is of a much younger woman, thin and wiry, caught unawares at what looks to be a 50s diner-style table.
"Sandy Duvall. Jackson Nichols. Danika Lloyd." Ullman taps them each in turn as he says their names. “These are the victims we made public knowledge.” He slides the first pictures out of the way to reveal their more grisly counterparts underneath. “And these…” He sighs heavily. “This is how we found ‘em.”
Dean inches forward to pry the photos from the smooth desk surface and leans back so he and Sam can examine them. The victims’ names are scrawled in the margin of every image, but otherwise, there’s no way to identify the bodies; they’re torn up too badly. It’s nothing they haven’t seen before, but Dean still catches Sam's grimace from the corner of his eye.
“Miss Duvall was found two days ago. She’s missin’ the entirety of the bones in her left leg, plus a portion of her hip, some vertebrae, and a few ribs,” Ullman says to them levelly. He’s not going over the coroner’s reports that are next in the folder; he's staring straight ahead, reciting the facts with the dead eyes of a man who’s been spending sleepless nights going over every fiber of this case. “Mr. Nichols is missin’ all but one of his ribs, both hands. Parts of his sternum. Clavicle.”
That’s not all he’s missing, Dean thinks grimly, because the man’s entire torso has been ripped open, his intestines left spilling out into the grass a few feet away in the accompanying pictures.
“And Dani…” Ullman falters. Dean glances up to see the Sheriff wipe a hand across his face as though he's half-hoping he'll scrub it off. “Miss Lloyd is missin’ her lower jaw, the upper vertebrae, and much of her skull. The… organs were present… torn to hell, but present."
Sam casts him an expression full of concern. "Sheriff Ullman,” he says softly. “Were you connected with any of the victims?"
Ullman hesitates. "Dani… Danika. She and my daughter were good friends in high school, always gettin' into trouble," he says with a fond sort of regret. "She was takin' a gap year. Payin' some folks around town a visit."
Dean holds up one of the prints from the coroner's office, a closeup of Sandy Duvall's displaced hip, mostly clean besides a few clinging scraps of flesh and a set of long grooves gouged deep into the bone. "Bite marks, scratches?" Dean asks, still rifling through the stack and passing photos to Sam.
"Mm, both." Ullman reaches for the other folder, fiddling with the corner. "Far as we can tell, it's canine, or close to it. Not human, in nature."
"Human?" Sam clarifies. "Why would you say that?”
“Well.” Ullman pushes the second folder forward with the tips of his fingers like he’s trying not to touch it, like it’s an evil thing he wishes he didn’t have to handle. “They ain’t the only dead we got.”
Dean arches an eyebrow. “There’s more?”
Ullman only gestures to the folder— open it— so Dean reaches forward and takes it.
With nervous, tapping fingers, Ullman watches them unearth the file’s secrets.
The first picture, an older man’s body sprawled on a hardwood floor with much of his front doused in red, comes with some paper scraps of nearly illegible scrawl clipped to its side— no coroner’s report, though. In fact, it doesn’t look like there are any coroner’s reports in this one, or none that are official, anyway. There are a few more photos of the same man on an examination table, pre-autopsy, but nothing seems particularly remarkable about him. Other than how his skin has the unmistakable pallor of a corpse.
“Howard Grady. Found in his home three days ago,” Ullman explains. “We still aren’t entirely certain what killed him. Lydia, our coroner... she’s been a little overwhelmed. The blood found on his shirt, under his nails, and in his mouth…” He halts. He frowns. He scratches his head. “That’s been identified as Sandy Duvall’s.”
Dean nods; this is the man reported missing, their culprit. They were expecting this. Curiously, as he squints at the picture of Howard, he can’t see any of the hallmark signs of a rugaru who has recently fallen prey to its hunger, though. Howard’s skin is, by all appearances… normal. “Did anyone notice anything off about Howard that day? Eating a lot, bloodshot eyes? Acting… strange?”
“I don’t believe so,” Ullman says wearily. “Howard was a bit of a shut-in, but the friendly kind. Had a strict routine. Picked up the newspaper, walked to Rosie’s for a donut and coffee, and walked home. Every mornin’ like clockwork. Said it was good for his bones.” He shakes his head. “I seen him around for years now, wavin' good day to everyone he saw. Poor old sap wouldn’ta hurt a fly. N' even if he did, we can't make sense of it. I mean, he didn’t do this. The bites… they're animal.”
“Sounds like something changed,” Dean mutters, just quiet enough so that Ullman doesn't catch it, but the next photo makes him pause. He holds it up. “Who’s this?”
It’s a man in a very bloody gingham shirt, lying on his front in the grass, his head tilted and facing the camera. The flash illuminates his wide, glassy eyes.
Perfectly white, normal scleras.
“Darrell O’Hallorann. Found early yesterday morning, much the same way as Mr. Grady.” Ullman’s chair creaks again as he shifts in it. “Haven’t had time for lab results, but we can be sure the blood on him is not his own. His death was witnessed by his sister, Missy.”
That gets a response. Dean’s eyebrows shoot up. Sam sits up straight. “She saw what happened?” Sam asks.
“Missy reported him leavin' for the store and not comin' back, day before last. He’s been livin’ with her while she goes through her divorce, helpin’ her take care of the kids.” Ullman shakes his head mournfully. “Missy saw him stumblin’ into the front lawn yesterday about seven am, all bloody, tellin’ her to stay back. She said he was holdin’ his stomach, and then he just…” He gestures to the ground. “Keeled over.”
“No warning signs with him either? Nothing notable before he went missing?”
Ullman sighs. “From what I gather, no. Well mannered man. Recovered alcoholic. Real good uncle to Missy’s kids.”
Silence, as the two imitation FBI agents rifle through papers, trying to find anything else Ullman could have missed. Eventually, Sam raises his head from the first folder.
“Thank you for your help, Sheriff,” he says politely, half standing. “Would you mind if we take these...?”
“Help yourself,” Ullman grunts. “I have plenty more.” Dean doesn’t doubt that he has a corkboard full of them somewhere, judging by that haggard look.
They bid their goodbyes and make their way out of the station, leaving the Sheriff to contemplate the case alone in his creaky office chair.
Once they’re outside and almost to the Impala, Sam starts speculating. “So. Not a rugaru.”
“Not unless they're popping up like weeds and only eating bones.” Dean pauses with his hand on the Impala’s door while Sam makes his way to the passenger side. “And definitely more than one. But, it doesn't matter now, I guess. They’re both dead.”
“There could be more,” Sam points out, propping his arms on the roof. “It doesn't sound like it's cropping up randomly. It seems like it's spreading.”
"Whatever this is," Dean says, pointing determinedly at Sam, "We can head it off before it gets any worse. I'm gonna head to the morgue. Get a closer look at O'Hallorann, see what I can find."
"Okay. I'll give Missy a visit, see if she can shed some light on what happened to Darrell," Sam decides, and starts to get into the car until he sees Dean smirking at him. "What?"
Dean gives him an exaggerated wink. "Of course you will."
Sam rolls his eyes so hard they almost pop out of his head. "Really, Dean? She's grieving ."
When Dean only wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, Sam wrenches the Impala's door open. "You're disgusting," he says, and Dean grins as they both get in the car.
Missy, as it turns out, is not only recently divorced. With a quick search on his iPad during the drive over, Sam learns she's also got a reputation for being rough and tumble, a through-and-through country woman who has built her own ranch from the ground up. And she's well-off, with a stately white house and a well-kept barn on an expansive property at the west edge of town that, because of a prenuptial agreement that gave her a significant portion of assets in the event of a divorce, belongs entirely to her.
She's also tall.
Very tall.
So tall, in fact, that when Sam’s standing on her wraparound porch and she cracks the door open, he has the rare experience of actually having to look up into her striking golden-brown eyes instead of down, and his heart drops to his stomach.
When he finally does look down, there's the barrel of a twelve gauge pointing directly at his chest.
Sam throws his hands up and thanks whatever deity listening that he already had his badge in one of them before he knocked. He lets it fall open in his palm.
" Agent —" he tries, and it comes out squeakier than he intended. He clears his throat. "Agent Newlander, FBI. Missy O’Hallorann?” She squints at him, and Sam takes that as confirmation enough. “I just want to ask you some questions, that's all."
Missy's eyes shine with distrust, and she regards Sam for a tense half minute that feels more like a weeklong standoff. Her eyes flick up and down his frame, giving him a once-over while Sam stays perfectly still. Eventually, she opens the door wider and lowers her shotgun.
Her eyes are red-rimmed, but the cascade of dark hair that fans around her face half-hides them from the mid-afternoon sun. She’s dressed in a dirty, torn-up pair of overalls, the straps of which are undone and hanging loosely around her waist, and a plaid shirt with the sleeves pushed up to her elbows.
She studies him appraisingly, her eyes lingering over his tie. Sam swallows.
Missy’s shoulders relax as she seems to come to a decision. "Yeah?” she says, and her voice comes out thick and a little muffled, like she’s been crying, and— oh, right , probably because she’s been grieving .
Sam blinks himself back into reality. “Miss O’Hallorann— I don’t mean to bother you. I just want to talk to you about your brother, if that’s alright.”
Missy opens the door all the way and lets Sam through. As he steps over the threshold into a grand foyer with vaulted ceilings, he catches the heady smell of meat cooking from somewhere deeper in the house. She shows him through a doorway immediately to the left of the entry, a more modest drawing room decorated all in soothing tones of blue and white, and waits until he sits down on the couch before she excuses herself.
“Wait here. Chicken’s almost done,” she instructs in a southern drawl, her voice deep and indecipherable, and Sam stiffly puts his hands in his lap as she leaves, feeling hot.
He can hear the nearby clamour of dishes and cupboard doors in what must be the kitchen, so he takes the time to examine his surroundings from where he sits. The drawing room is lined in creamy white bookshelves, one with its two top rows showcasing several pieces of expensive-looking china, another filled with dozens of dainty porcelain cow figurines, and another with rows of plaques and trophies from various equestrian competitions. A horseshoe hangs like a good omen above the door frame.
Typical family photos are hanging on the walls: Missy and her kids, grinning and gap-toothed next to the horses; someone who Sam recognizes from the case file as Missy's brother, Darrell; the whole family sitting together at a diner with a checkered floor, though one person has been neatly folded out of view. Occasionally, the family is accompanied by someone who's the spitting image of Missy, an older woman with long hair and crow's feet who Sam assumes is Missy’s mother.
Notably, the state of the drawing room doesn't seem to match the meticulous, upper-class vibe of the house. To an outsider, it seems like someone’s been camping out in here for several days, though Sam knows Missy's brother only died yesterday morning. There's a box of tissues on the coffee table in front of him, and a wastebasket full of used ones off to the side. A bottle of antacid tablets has tipped over next to the tissues, and the rest of the table is littered with crumpled napkins and two precarious stacks of dirty plates, one in particular that looks like it could topple at any second.
The blinds on the large picture window have been drawn, but Sam can see a crease in one of them, a spot where someone's been periodically peeking out to watch the front drive. Missy has apparently been sitting here with her gun for some time, waiting, perhaps keeping guard for an unexpected visitor.
When Missy returns a few minutes later (she has to actually duck her head to get through the doorway, which Sam definitely doesn't think about for more than a half second), she's bearing a plate— and there's an actual whole chicken on it, slightly blackened like it’s been cooking just a little too long.
If anything is amiss with this scene, Missy doesn’t show it. She simply plops onto the couch opposite Sam and slams her plate down next to the others with a clatter. Sam jumps.
Missy sniffs heartily, obviously still upset, but gives her undivided attention to quickly tearing the chicken apart with her fingers. Without hesitation, she begins stuffing large chunks of it into her mouth, skin and all.
Sam knows that everyone processes loss in their own way, of course. It's what he tries to consider every time he knocks on the door of a victim's family, anticipating that he will have to tread lightly no matter what situation he walks into. But he expects this kind of behavior from Dean, not from a grieving woman in the Kansas countryside. He is so baffled by this turn of events that it takes him a good few seconds to think of any questions relevant to the case.
“So… Missy.”
He gets a flash of her honey brown eyes that lets him know she’s listening, but she doesn’t reduce her efforts to demolish the chicken in record time. It's only come out of the oven moments ago and should be piping hot to the touch— it's certainly steaming like it is— but she's already a good third of the way through by the time Sam collects himself and starts again.
"I'm sorry about your brother. I know it must have been hard, losing him this way."
Missy nods, chewing, and Sam waits for her to swallow. "It has been… it's been real hard." One hand takes a break from her chicken to grab a fresh tissue and dab at her eyes; the other stays hard at work, picking away. "The kids are at their Nana's… I haven't told 'em their Uncle Dee is gone."
"I'm sorry. Were they here, that morning?"
Missy's next words come out around another mouthful. "No, thank heaven. They don't deserve to see their uncle like… like that ."
Sam nods understandingly, eyes still on the chicken. "I can't imagine. It must have been horrific."
Chewing more slowly, Missy gives him that once-over again, calculating something about him in her head. Sam keeps his expression open and concerned; he's here to listen.
"No," she finally says, and regains some of her concentration, pushing the plate a few inches away and wiping her hands on one of the already discarded napkins. The majority of the chicken is somehow already gone, now more of a hollow carcass. "I don't mean how he… looked. I mean how he…"
She shudders and meets Sam's eye, and he sees the anguish that haunts her written plainly across her face.
"I came outside to check on the horses. They were nervous. Restless, spooked. I couldn't figure out what did it to 'em. And then I heard him out in front of the house." She lowers her voice to a whisper. "He was screamin' when I saw him. Cryin' out for our mother. Yellin' about how much it hurt— and he wouldn't stop holdin' his stomach, like he was tryin' his best to keep somethin' in."
She wraps her arms around her middle, an unconscious echo of the same motion, and Sam can see it in her eyes while she talks, even as she regards the floor: the man in the bloody gingham shirt, eyes wild and pained, searching for a comfort that isn't there.
"I never seen him like that. Never. He told me to get inside, stay back. And when he fell down on the grass, I couldn't help it, I came runnin' out to him, but…" She lets her arms fall to her lap. "He was already gone."
"I'm sorry," he says softly. "I saw someone in my life die, too." Missy looks up. "No one should have to go through that."
Sam's seen a lot of people die, and he's half afraid she'll ask. Instead, she only nods. Her posture relaxes and her eyes meet his more readily now; he's said the right thing. "Thank you. He… He may'uh done some things, in the past. But he was a good man," she says, raising her shoulders. "He didn't deserve it."
Sam lets her mull over the events for a moment more, lets the calm settle back over the conversation again. When he thinks he's given the memory a fair amount of space, he ploughs on. "Was there anything Darrell did that day that seemed… off, to you? Anything at all?"
Missy thinks hard about it for a little while, and Sam is just about to explain to her that's okay, thank you for your help , when she answers. "Yes, actually. It didn't seem like much at the time, but. Now that I think about it, he was… eating a lot. Left for the store just before dark for s'more groceries. Didn't come home."
She frowns down at the empty plates in front of her on the coffee table, like she's just realizing that maybe, just maybe, something isn't right.
"It was stress," she says, but the words are hollow. "He did that sometimes. Instead of goin' back to drinkin', he ate."
Sam can't help it. His eyes travel to examine Missy’s fingers, still not quite all the way clean, and the stack of dishes she's about to add to with her most recent meal, and the downed antacid tablets.
Missy sees his scrutiny and gives him a quick half smile that doesn't really hide the anxiety behind her eyes. "I s’pose I must be the same way.” She rights the bottle of antacid tablets. “My stomach’s been actin’ up somethin’ terrible since this mornin'. Won’t quit burnin’.”
A curious question springs up in Sam's mind, something he thinks maybe isn't so appropriate to ask, but perhaps conversational enough that he can. "Missy… What else have you eaten today?"
She thinks. "Oh… chicken, mostly. I think. A couple of 'em. What I had in the freezer." She's fidgeting impatiently now, and her eyes dart back and forth between Sam and the nearly-bare bird on the table.
Sam looks back at the plates again, devoid of any remains, and at the wastebasket that's ready at the foot of the table, full of tissues.
No bones.
Could be a coincidence.
"Just one last question, Missy, and then I'll get out of your hair." Sam brings out a photo of Howard Grady from his jacket pocket. In this one, Grady's sitting in that 50s style diner with a newspaper and a half-eaten donut, giving a crooked grin to whoever's behind the camera. "Did you or your brother happen to see this man recently?"
Missy doesn't make a move to take the picture. "Yeah, that’s Howard. I heard what happened… poor soul.” She dabs at her eye again. “Darrell talked to him a few days ago. Day before he disappeared. We went down to Rosie's to get the kids donuts before they went off to their Nana’s, and Howard was there. They got to talkin’ before Howard went home.”
"Alright. Thank you, Missy, that’s all I need." Sam stands and tucks the picture back into his pocket wondering, not for the first time in his line of work, if they might be dealing with a lot more than they thought.
Missy stands with him. "I'll see you out," she offers.
Sam lets her lead him out of the drawing room, knowing he shouldn’t leave her alone like this. Once at the front door, he reaches into another pocket in his suit and pulls out the business cards they've had printed for this trip. "Thank you, miss O'Hallorann. If you think of anything else, or if there's anything you need— anything at all— please let me know."
"Please… call me Missy." She bends down and gives Sam a soft, sweet peck on the cheek while she takes the card. Sam's skin prickles with heat where she's touched it. "Thank you…"
"Sam," he says automatically.
"Thank you, Sam," she murmurs, and shuts her door quietly, leaving him alone on her front porch.
"Right this way, Agent Feldman. Your partner is already in the morgue."
Dean, who is pretty fucking sure he just dropped Sam off for an interview on the other side of town the last time he checked, raises his eyebrows at the coroner’s kind-faced receptionist. "...My partner?"
"Yes. Agent Gaga arrived a little while ago." Dean stands stock still and realizes with alarm that he might have a problem on his hands if he’s been preceded by some other hunter they don’t know— or worse, a real FBI agent, though it doesn’t sound likely with that cover name. “Lydia...isn’t in at the moment.”
“When will she be back?”
“I believe she said she was taking a smoke break,” she says grimly, and Dean reads between the lines very quickly: Lydia’s not coming back today, buddy . The receptionist waits patiently for him to follow her into the hallway of the coroner's office. "...Right this way, sir," she repeats.
Dean follows her because, well, he can't back out now, can he? He's extra aware of the placement of his gun, wedged snugly between his dress pants and the band of his boxer briefs, just in case he needs it. He hopes he doesn’t— internally, he's half-panicked that if he uses it, it will lead him down a slippery slope he's all too well acquainted with since being bestowed with the Mark. But it’s also a reassurance he’s provided himself with in nearly every public space since he was a teenager, and it grounds him.
The receptionist leads him down a long cream colored hallway, blank except for the occasional dingy fluorescent ceiling light. They pass a few unmarked offices, a bathroom, and a windowless door with a plain black sign on it marked MORGUE .
"Just inside here," the receptionist says, and she opens the door. “Agent Gaga?” she announces herself into the white-tiled room before them. Dean peers anxiously over her shoulder, tense, ready to reach behind his suit jacket and grab his pistol if he must.
A very familiar angel leaning over one of the examination tables, trenchcoat and all, is not by any means the man he expects to see.
Cas’ blue eyes shoot up at the sound of the door opening, and when he catches sight of Dean stepping around the receptionist, he looks about as surprised as Dean feels. Cas straightens, and they blink at each other in disbelief.
Or, Dean blinks, anyway. Cas doesn’t seem to have it in him. There’s something inscrutable on his face that Dean doesn’t think he wants to examine too closely.
Dean is the first to break whatever stalemate they’re locked in. “Agent!” he exclaims, and Cas jumps. “Sorry I’m late. Thanks, we can take it from here,” he directs at the receptionist.
She smiles politely at him as she backs into the hallway. “Agents,” she says, and closes the door behind her. The sound of her heels clacking further and further down the hallway is the only noise for a few moments while Cas stares right at Dean.
Dean can’t help it. He stares back. It's been so many weeks and he's been thinking so often when he's alone in his room, ruminating inside the bunker's walls about how unfair it is that Cas had to go so quickly when he'd only just arrived, that Cas had to see him when Dean was...
Well.
Now Dean's caught in a whorl of fading adrenaline that makes his hands a little shaky. He explains it away to himself as a reaction to a possible threat in the room, not because of the overwhelming urge to step forward, wrap his arms around Cas, and give him a soft squeeze. It would be nice, wouldn't it, to be reunited after so long of Cas being on the road, to have someone he cares about hug him back. He doesn't know that Cas will want to, though, not after he's seen Dean going after his own brother with a hammer, not when the reason Cas had to race to the bunker in the first place is still ticking away like a time bomb on Dean's arm at this very moment.
So, he privately ignores the initial swell of fondness he felt at seeing Cas unexpectedly and trades it for an annoyance that is much safer, much more readily available. His fingers clench with the effort.
As soon as Dean’s sure the receptionist is out of earshot, he rounds on Cas. “ Gaga ? I thought you were too busy to help us with a case.”
A hint of regret touches Cas’ features, but he still rolls his eyes. “I am busy, Dean. What are you doing here?”
“What am I doing here?” Dean huffs, offended that his usual hello, Dean has been bypassed for this clipped response. “Happy to see you too, sugar plum. We’re working a case.”
Dean steps up to the examination table and surveys the body on it, which Cas has uncovered from the waist up. The bloodsoaked gingham shirt that Dean saw in the case file is enough to identify him as Darrell O’Hallorann.
He glares at Cas. “What are you doing here?”
Sighing, Cas bores into Dean’s eyes with his own. Dean tries to hold his gaze as long as possible, knowing it's a losing battle with an inhuman force and he’ll have to look away eventually. He always does.
“I heard a call for help on angel radio a few days ago," Cas admits. "It originated from somewhere closeby.”
Now that is news. Dean stands up straighter, all other thoughts swept aside. “Something’s killing angels? And you thought you should waltz on over here by yourself? Without telling anybody?”
“He may still be alive. I don’t know for certain,” Cas says, and his eyes drop back down to the dead man. Dean inwardly celebrates his win in the staring contest Cas doesn’t even know he was a part of. “I haven’t found him yet. The plea was… very faint, almost inaudible. I may have been the only one close enough to hear it.”
Dean immediately attaches to a different piece of information. “You were already in the area? And you didn't, oh, I dunno, think to call us?”
Cas stiffens. His mouth opens, closes again. “I have been doing… some... very important research.” He ignores the incredulous expression he gets from Dean and gestures down to the table before an argument can get started. "Regardless, there is something happening in this town. I'm glad you're here."
Dean is about to berate Cas further, something along the lines of do you always try to get yourself killed? but hearing that Cas is glad to see him— him, the guy who was going all Jack Torrance last time they saw each other— unbalances him. He's torn between returning the sentiment and letting off a little more steam, like he'd been about to.
He stands like a deer in the headlights instead of either.
Cas saves him from certain embarrassment by doing what they both do best: averting the conversation, smoothing it over with business. "I've been checking over the bodies since yesterday. Howard and Darrell— they've met the same fate. Whatever they're turning into, it's… something new. Nothing I know of."
Dean seizes the change in topics like a lifeline. "Great, a mystery monster. What did you find out?"
"Both Darrell and Howard were afflicted with abnormally strong stomach acid that burned holes in the lining. That is, most likely, the cause of death." Cas leans over Darrell's body and Dean's afraid he's about to be treated to the horror show of Cas sniffing a dead guy, again — but instead, Cas does something worse. He pries open Darrell's mouth and sticks his bare fingers in.
Dean is mortified.
"Cas—"
"His molars have been turned inside his gums, rotated. I'd say about… ninety degrees," Cas continues as he feels around, like this is normal. Dean's stomach flips over. "And, not only did he eat Danika's bones. Specifically—" Cas pulls his hand out, lifting up a rusty-brown tinged fingertip to show Dean. "He ate the marrow."
"Cas!"
"Yes?" Cas looks up at him attentively.
Dean can't keep his eyes off Cas' finger. "Until we know more about these things, you probably shouldn't... stick your hand in the dead guy's mouth." Cas turns his finger to look at it. "Actually, scratch that. You should never stick your hand in the dead guy's mouth."
Cas wipes his finger on his trenchcoat, leaving a light smear.
"Can't believe I had to say that," Dean mutters.
"Their condition likely will not affect me," Cas explains gently. "My grace will fight off most infections, certainly those of a monstrous nature."
Dean frowns as he realizes he's never contemplated the possibility of an angel who was also a monster. Picturing something like a holy vamp or werewolf-angel hybrid or a ghoul that exudes grace… it makes for an interesting image, wild and unheard of like what you’d expect for a new antagonist on the latest episode of a sci-fi TV show. Exciting.
Maybe a little worrying.
"Do you think they're the ones who nabbed one of the god squad?"
Cas frowns. "I'm not sure," he says. "Brute force wouldn't be successful against an angel. It would have to be either an angel blade or some sort of supernatural attack, something these creatures may or may not be capable of. If I could find the body, I'd know for sure."
Dean looks over Darrell's body, trying to imagine him attacking an angel, killing it, ripping it to shreds like he did with the other vics, and he finds he can't. Darrell's body is slight, a little on the short side, innocently dressed like he's about to grab brunch with a coworker. He died like he'd been plucked off the streets and stuck into a horror movie as the expendable extra. Not for the first time, Dean wants to have been there, to have prevented this— it's never fair.
He thinks about it for a little too long.
When he comes back to himself, Cas' shoulders are slumped. Dean knows angels don't need sleep, but Cas has bags under his eyes, and he looks… exhausted, downtrodden. Dean can't believe he didn't notice it before.
"Sam said you're flying solo now," Dean says before he can stop himself. He bites his lip. He's talking about Hannah, of course, but he doesn't want to say her name.
Cas makes eye contact with him for a tense half second before he casts his gaze back down at the table. "Yes. Hannah is back in heaven."
"You're… good with that?" Dean prompts. He knows it's none of his business, like he said to Sam in the car. But he still asks.
"Things are quiet for now," Cas says, an echo of the same thing he said back at the bunker, his words measured. "That was her decision to make. Not mine."
"Well…" Dean doesn't want to say he's glad she's gone, or that we've all been there, or that he's sorry, because he doesn't think any of those are really true. So, he settles on what he knows, a simple fact that makes this whole situation easier. "It's good to have you back."
That earns him a lopsided smile, fond in spite of itself. It fades now that it's Cas' turn to survey Dean, and Dean feels his arms prickle under the observation.
"How are you, Dean?" Cas asks, his voice tinged bittersweet like he already knows the answer but still has room to hope.
The question is warm and soft, just a simple invitation, not a demand. Dean opens his mouth and almost, almost gives in to it.
Until he remembers that he can't. He can't ask anything else of Cas. He can't be the reason Cas worries, he won't be the reason Cas breaks himself trying to find a solution for Dean's curse that just isn't there. He won't do it.
"Good," he hears himself say with a manufactured smile. "You know me. Peachy. Why? How do I look?" He says it flirtily, and he knows the reference to their last meeting— when Cas told him he looked terrible— is going to fall flat, and it does. He doesn't know what else to say.
Something stirs in Cas’ face, and Dean can see it happen.
It isn't the light agreement or subtle sadness Dean expected, no attempt to gloss over his insecurities and to acknowledge that he is not, and might never be, ready to talk about it right now. No, Cas is looking at him with something heavy, weighted, meaningful in a way he can't decipher. He doesn’t know what it's doing to his own chest, but as he takes it in— focus darting from Cas’ nose to his right eye to his left to his chin and back to his eyes, and Dean's smile falls, and he wonders why he didn't notice how close they were standing, and Cas takes a breath to answer— that’s when Dean’s phone rings.
Cas drops his gaze to Dean’s pocket, but Dean can’t seem to make his hands work.
“You should probably get that,” Cas says reasonably and, if Dean's not imagining things, regretfully. Dean swallows, and Cas watches his throat bob.
“Right,” Dean makes himself answer. He pulls his cell phone out of his pocket and sees Sam on the screen. He squeezes his eyes shut. Wistfully, he swipes the green button and holds the phone up to his ear.
“Sammy!” He turns a little bit away from the table so he can’t see Cas scrutinizing him; it’s taking more of his attention than he cares to admit.
“I’m done here,” Sam says on the other end of the line. “I’ve got something, I think.”
Dean leans on the adjacent examination table. “Yeah,” he says distractedly. “So have we.”
“We?” Sam asks curiously.
Even though Sam can't hear it, Dean still grins. The weird tension from a moment ago fades mercifully into background noise, and Dean breathes again. “You’ll never guess what the bone monster dragged in.” Cas puts his hand up in greeting, like Sam’s going to see it. It’s so pure that Dean has to fix his eyes on the calendar hanging across from him so he has something else to focus on. “It’s Cas. He beat us here. What do you say I pick you up and we all head to dinner?” Cas nods amicably from the corner of his vision.
“Cas is there?” Sam says, and the happiness Dean expected to hear at this news sounds a little strained, for some reason. “Oh, um, that’s— that’s great! Yeah, sure, let’s do that.”
Cas can hear Sam's end of the conversation, and he smiles in a way that Dean hasn't seen very often lately.
“Awesome,” Dean says belatedly, watching Cas. There's a lull.
Sam clears his throat. “...As soon as you pick me up.”
Dead runs a hand over his face. “Right, yeah. I’ll be there in a few.”
“See you,” Sam says, and hangs up.
Cas is driving his own vehicle, the old Lincoln Continental that Dean hasn't even thought to consider when he asks if Cas needs a ride, so they decide that Cas will go on ahead and save them a table before they part ways. Dean's a little reluctant to see Cas bouncing off by himself, feeling like the Impala is more empty now than it was when he drove here.
Dean picks Sam up a bit of a drive later ("So. How'd it go? Did you get her number?" Dean asks, and Sam flips him the bird), and they rumble down narrow, bumpy streets and back onto the main road before they find Belle Villa, the highway restaurant they'd seen from the road that looks just their style.
Dean is in good spirits for the first time since he's come back from demonhood. He drums along on the steering wheel to Blondie as he turns into the parking lot, fully ready to chow down on a burger and beer with two of his favorite people, despite the small drawback that they don't have any idea what they're dealing with. He's not worried about that, though. They always figure it out one way or another, don't they?
In the passenger seat next to him, Sam is not in good spirits. In fact, he looks stressed as hell.
"Come on, Sam, lighten up," Dean says brightly as they pull up outside the restaurant, a brick building with the words Kids Eat Free Wednesdays in blocky text on the front window. Sam grimaces. "We came here for an easy case. We got a challenge and we got a bonus." Sam shoots him a puzzled look and Dean raises his eyebrows in return. "...You know. Cas?"
"Oh. Um, yeah," Sam agrees noncommittally. "Listen, Dean. I'm worried about Missy."
"The milf?" Sam gives him a bitchface that could melt metal. Dean lets it glance off of him. "What, why? You think she's in danger?"
"Yeah, I think she could be," Sam says. "Dean, I don't think this is a clear cut case."
"Yeah, well… maybe not," Dean mutters. "If you're that worried about it, we can go by and check on her tonight, okay?"
"Okay," Sam says, but the worry doesn't exactly leave his face.
They park and find Cas inside, already sitting at a booth near a yellowed back wall. Sam sits down on the empty bench, and Dean deliberates for only a half second before scooting in next to him instead of Cas. If the weird energy from the morgue is still between them, well, he can deal with it from across the table instead of right next to the guy. He glances over the menu, spots a classic burger, finds the extra bacon charge, and hands it to Sam in short order.
"Sam," Cas says. "It's good to see you."
"Good to see you too, Cas," Sam returns warmly. "So, you're on a case, huh?"
Their tired but resigned waitress checks in on them before Cas can answer, and Dean takes this moment to order a beer and his burger, add bacon. He does this from time to time, purposely ordering before Sam has a chance to peruse the healthier options on the menu, just to piss him off. And, as expected, he can see Sam's eyes rushing to scan over the menu.
"I will have the T-bone steak dinner."
Dean looks up in disbelief. It takes him a second to understand that he's not hallucinating and the gravelly voice that's just ordered does, in fact, belong to Cas.
Cas meets Sam and Dean's shocked expressions and seems to recognize he's done something abnormal. He leans forward and tacks on a polite, "Please.”
The waitress, of course, doesn't find anything wrong with that. "And how would you like that cooked?"
"Ah..." He glances from Dean to Sam in a universal please help . “On a grill? Perhaps in an oven, if that’s what you have available—”
Dean unsticks his throat and tries to assist. "No, like— you know, well done, medium, medium rare—"
"Rare," Cas settles on almost immediately. Dean arches an eyebrow and turns to Sam, who shrugs, similarly nonplussed.
"Fries, soup, or salad?"
Fries , Dean mouths from across the table.
"Fries," Cas says confidently. Dean shoots him a discreet thumbs up.
"And for you?" the waitress says. Her eyes flick up when Sam doesn't answer right away.
"Uh..." Sam tosses the menu down and shakes his head. "You know what? I'll have the same thing."
The waitress writes it down and collects their menus, just a regular day at the job, and Dean thinks he must be having a stroke. First Cas ordering food out with them when he never does that because he doesn't need to eat, and now Sam ordering a steak ? A T-bone, no less? This has to be a parallel universe.
"Did you…" Dean points at Sam once they're alone again. "Did you just—"
"It's been a long day," Sam says, which it most certainly has not. "You told me to lighten up. This is me… lightening up."
"...Okay?" Dean says, because he's not going to argue with it, and he's not about to make a tired "who are you and what have you done with my brother" joke. He points at Cas next. "What about you, you turn into a hungry hungry hippo all the sudden?"
Cas narrows his eyes. "I indulge in certain human pleasures from time to time, Dean," he says matter-of-factly, and that implication shuts Dean up completely.
There's an awkward pause where Cas continues to glare and Dean’s mouth hangs open. Cas is giving him that look like he's about to kill him or pin him to a wall, Dean isn't sure, but it's carting his mind off somewhere he doesn't want to go. Cas indulges in human pleasures, plural? What other kinds of—
Sam coughs. "So, uh, what'd you guys find?"
Frazzled, Dean grasps at the change in conversation and starts to fill Sam in on the information they've gathered— or, well, Cas has gathered, mostly.
Cas cuts in and lets them know that he examined Howard and the threadbare remains of the other vics yesterday. What they already know is confirmed again— that, once turned, the monster is mostly after bones, not paying any special attention to the skin and organs that stand in the way of its prize. In addition, Howard and Darrell died with the same symptoms: their back molars turned ninety degrees, their stomach acid so low in pH that it burned through the lining, and their back teeth caked with bone marrow. Dean tries not to think about Cas sticking his fingers in Howard Grady's mouth, too.
Sam already has his phone out, googling, and he chimes in a minute later. "Okay, get this. Animals like the wolverine are accustomed to eating the bones of their prey and consuming the marrow for extra nutrients... Their teeth are angled for grinding, and their stomach is more acidic to digest whatever it finds."
"Wolverine?" Dean repeats, a sudden sparkle in his eye.
"Yeah," Sam says offhandedly, still scanning whatever article he's reading. "So, it would make sense if, when they’re exposed to whatever this is, their body adapts to the food they're going to eat— like how vamps grow fangs when they’re turned. But…"
"If their body is accommodating this change, then why would it still kill them?" Cas wonders, frowning.
"Wait." All eyes turn to Dean, who is almost vibrating with excitement. "So we're hunting a— okay, here me out. A werewolver— "
"No," Sam and Cas cut across him in unison.
Dean's enthusiasm deflates, and he leans back from the table with his arms crossed.
"Another strange thing," Sam says, ignoring his pouting brother. "Missy said that Darrell was eating a lot the day before his death. Maybe trying to satisfy the craving, like a rugaru. And he saw Howard the day before— he stopped and talked to him while he was out getting donuts."
"So… Howard infected Darrell, somehow," Cas reasons. "But there were no bite marks, no attack wounds."
"Could be similar to a werewolf. The bite heals completely after the infection takes hold," Sam points out.
"Come on, the guy gets attacked, goes back home to his sister and plays it cool? Nah." Dean shakes his head. "He didn't know what hit him. Has to be something else."
Shortly after they begin to argue about the mode of transmission, the waitress arrives with their dinners, stopping the conversation. She sets identical plates down in front of Sam and Cas, and a tall burger held together by a colorful toothpick in front of Dean, who rubs his hands together.
"All right ." He takes a giant bite before the waitress has fully finished walking away from their table. It's juicy, it's saucy, it's everything he dreams of while he's out on the road. He savors it with a noisy, less than appropriate swallow.
"Forgot to ask for a salad," Sam mutters from the seat next to him, regarding the fries on his plate with distaste. Still, he picks up the steak knife he's been provided with and gets to work.
Meanwhile, Cas cuts a near-giant piece of his steak away from the rest, sticks it in his mouth, and barely chews, gulping it down like he's a homeless human man again with no promise of another decent meal. He gets the next piece down, and then the next one, and Dean finally gets concerned.
"Whoa, slow down there, cookie monster," he says, reaching out to slide the plate a few inches away from Cas. "A T-bone is a special occasion. You're supposed to enjoy those."
"I am enjoying it. This is a very good steak," Cas says impatiently, and with his mouth half full, he looks like he means it. Dean lets the plate go and Cas snatches it back, already cutting another slice.
Dean takes another, smaller bite of his burger, side-eyeing Sam. Sam is cutting his steak with less fervor, busy watching Cas and not wolfing his down as well, thank god. Seeing him eat something that hearty is uncanny enough as it is.
Cas is nearly finished with his steak and has picked up the bone to gnaw on the last bits of gristle when Sam makes an effort to distract him. “So, Cas. You’re, uh… working cases now, huh?”
Cas takes the very last nibble of meat left and sets the bone down, slowly. He wipes his hands on his napkin, which Dean now notices he’s had the decency to fold over his lap. “Someone sent out a distress signal on angel radio not far from here. It may have something to do with this case.”
Alarmed, Sam echoes Dean’s words from earlier. “They’re killing angels?”
Dean props his arms on the table, grabbing a fry. “That’s what I said, too.”
“I can’t be sure,” Cas says. “I haven’t found him.”
“So you’re trying to get leads.” Sam runs a hand over his face. “Cas, this is—”
“Dangerous, I know.” Cas keeps an eye trained on his plate and the clean, bare bone there, but he pushes it away, not touching his fries. Dean is scandalized. “Dean has already let me know that, on no uncertain terms.”
“Yeah, well. I’m glad we’re here to help, anyway,” Dean grumbles, snagging a fry from Cas’ plate. Cas fidgets idly with his napkin, shredding it into small pieces with his fingers. The bits begin to pile up on the remains of his T-bone, and Dean rescues a few fries that are in the line of fire before he goes on. “We don’t know crap about this thing, what it is, how it’s spreading, why it’s here. So… Let’s do some research, figure out—”
“Dean, I think Missy might be one of them,” Sam blurts.
Dean doesn’t think he has any surprise left in him for the night. He mulls that over for a second, chewing on a fry.
“She ate an entire chicken while I was there, Dean. I’ve never seen anyone eat anything that fast, not even you.”
“Jesus. Alright,” Dean acknowledges. “Makes sense. She’s been in close contact with her brother, lived with him while he was infected, was there when he died.” Pointedly, he raises an eyebrow at Sam. “You were there a while. You didn’t…?”
“What— No, asshole!” Sam points a fry at him. “That’s why I went to see the milf, not you.”
“Oh, so you agree that she’s a milf.”
Sam squeezes the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes. “I think we should check on her. If she is turning into this… thing... maybe we can help.”
“Or at least stop her from killing anyone,” Cas says.
“Alright.” Dean reaches into his back pocket for his wallet and slaps a couple of bills on the table. “No time like the present. Cas, you meet us there,” he directs, knowing Cas will decline a ride. "If she's in trouble, we've wasted enough daylight.”
The group shuffles out of the booth and through the restaurant, Dean giving the waitress a single wave in thanks on the way out the door. They step out into the dying rays of afternoon light and Dean takes in a steadying breath, watching how the sun is just beginning to sink behind those miles of open, rolling hills. Cas hasn’t parked far, and Dean falls in stride with him while Sam gets into the Impala.
Cas seems surprised to find Dean trailing after him when he reaches his car. “Dean, there’s no need to accompany me to my vehicle.”
“I know, I know,” Dean says, sticking his hands in his jacket pockets. “I, uh…”
He gazes into Cas’ waiting face. Cas' eyes are squinted and his head is cocked to the side, like he does so often when he’s caught in some human situation he hasn’t quite got a handle on.
“I just want you to know… We like having you around, Cas. If you’re in the area, you can visit us, you know. Even if it’s not business, you... You don’t have to stay away.”
Cas’ expression melts into something warm, his features softening. “Oh,” he says. “Well… Thank you, Dean.”
Dean stands there for a second, grinning, drinking in the crow’s feet around Cas’ eyes. He knows this is a vessel, that he’s not looking at Cas , per se. He’s been human in this body, though. He fought battles in it. Made a home in it. It’s as much his as it was Jimmy Novak’s, now. Dean’s proud of him.
His eyes slide past Cas to the Lincoln, which gleams in the parking lot lights that are just beginning to turn on. “So, still riding in the old pimpmobile, huh?”
Cas suddenly looks murderous.
The sound of the Impala’s door closing a few parking spots down startles them, and Dean looks over his shoulder to see Sam waving at them, phone in hand. “I can’t get a hold of Missy,” he calls to them. “We need to get going.”
Dean jerks his thumb over his shoulder in a gotta go gesture. “See you there,” he says to Cas, and Cas gives him one last little exasperated sigh and an upturn of the lips before he’s getting into his car by himself and Dean is walking away from him, clutching his keys tightly in his hands.
Sam tries to call Missy again twice more on their way to her estate, and the calls ring themselves to voicemail each time. Sam hangs up with a frustrated groan.
"I knew I shouldn't have left her alone there," he mutters.
"Hey, calm down, we'll get there," Dean tries to reassure him, while his speedometer needle creeps farther and farther up. "For all we know, she went to bed early and doesn't know who's calling."
"I gave her my number," Sam says. "And, went to bed? Really?"
Sam shakes his head and fixes his gaze out the window at the passing fields, houses and barns interspersed here and there to break the vast stretches of land. The sun has long since set, and the hills are shadowy, growing darker and bluer under the dwindling light. Dean can't see Cas' headlights behind him, but he knows Cas tends to take the roads slower than most. Safety, and all that.
When they pull up to Missy's front yard, Dean kills the lights and shifts the Impala into neutral far before they slide into the driveway. The lights in the drawing room window are on, the twilight is quiet and still and clear. There's not even a whisper of a breeze in the smattering of trees that loom over the house.
The blinds are askew and the front door stands wide open. Cold yellow light spills from the foyer onto the front lawn.
Shit, Dean thinks, she's toast , but he puts on his game face. For Sammy.
They nod at each other once and open the Impala's doors in tandem, stepping out and drawing their pistols. They softly nudge their doors shut, and Dean treads lightly to the front stoop.
He covers the foyer, eyes scanning the vaulted ceilings and the bare decoration for any signs of life, finding none. The only other open door here leads to the drawing room, and Sam creeps toward it, gun held steadily aloft in front of him. Dean follows.
Dean's never seen the drawing room, so he doesn't know what state it was in when Sam interviewed earlier, but he'll take his bets that it wasn't like this. Dirty dishes smashed, a wastebasket knocked over and its contents spilled everywhere. Picture frames and soft blue china knocked to the floor, the coffee table resting completely collapsed in the middle of the room. Books spilling out from the shelves on top of splintered wood. The bottle of antacid tablets has a gaping hole where the cap should be, and it’s empty.
Their boots crunch over shards of glass as they survey the scene. "Jesus," Dean breathes.
He follows Sam through the next door, which leads to a modern kitchen area with granite countertops and stainless steel appliances. The refrigerator door is ajar, and most notably, a half-mangled raw ham sits next to the sink, a ragged hole eaten straight through the middle of it where the bone would have been.
Still silent, Sam motions toward the backdoor that's just off to the right side of the kitchen. It's hanging off one hinge, and as they step closer, they can see a crumpled screen door lying in the grass, illuminated by the porch light outside.
They burst from the backdoor in a rush, brandishing their pistols. Nothing comes to meet them, no screeching monster, no teeth. The nightfall is just as quiet as it was when they arrived.
Dean frowns as he squints out into the horizon, trying to see any moving shapes. Missy has probably run off somewhere, perhaps out into the hills in search of something to feed on, and could be miles away by now. He turns to Sam and shrugs.
Sam lowers his pistol and Dean realizes he hasn’t heard any vehicles pull up yet. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and checks— no missed messages. He frowns.
“Where the hell is Cas?”
A sharp crack sounds from off to their left. Both men whip around to raise their guns at the sound.
Some sixty yards away from them, the barn awaits, an unmoving solid shadow rising up into the darkening sky. Dean takes his flashlight from his jacket and jerks his head— let's go — and they sneak as quickly as possible across the soft grass, hoping nothing is listening.
They round the side of the barn and immediately freeze as Dean’s flashlight finds what’s around the corner. Someone or something has slid the large rolling door to the side, just enough for a person to fit through. Inside the barn is pitch black.
Another crack! from within makes both brothers jump. Dean presses his lips into a hard line and shakes it off. Sam raises his own flashlight and clicks it on, ever so slowly inching it into the opening. Dean cocks his gun and peers into the darkness.
Sam inhales sharply, and Dean catches sight of it not a second later. It’s not what they’re looking for, not what they were hoping to find and hoping not to find. It’s... well. For a few strained seconds he’s not even sure what the hell he’s looking at, and when he pieces it together, he swallows back a bit of bile that’s suddenly threatening to crawl up his throat.
It’s a dead horse.
Not just that, either. The horse is… mangled, the hay around it stained a fresh, shining red. Dean’s not sure they should even call the thing a horse. Its guts are cascading out of its belly in a pile of meat and organs and tufts of wiry hair, encircled in a moat of its own blood. Its head is gone. Both its front legs are gone.
Dean thinks his stomach is about to be gone.
Sam shines his flashlight into the rest of the barn, and they figure out pretty quickly by the bodies strewn about that this isn’t all there is. Missy must have had a few horses— Dean counts the remains of four, if he’s discerning between them correctly. It’s hard to tell where one twisted pile of animal carcass ends and the next begins.
And there’s a quiet sound, a wet sound, coming from the other end of the barn.
Slurping.
Crunching.
Crack!
Dean flicks his flashlight up and it illuminates a thin figure, deathly pale and hunched over with its back facing them. Strangely, Dean thinks there’s a tiny plaid shirt clinging to its shoulders, far too small and ripped all to hell. The thing’s long, lanky arms scoop bits of gore from the ground and lift them to its mouth in a frenzied one-two-one-two like it’s going for champion in an eating contest.
Dean’s blood roars in his ears with a thunderous urgency— this is it. This is the monster .
He fires before he has time to think.
The gunshot ricochets far too loudly in the enclosed space, and the thing is instantly on its feet, scattering hay in its wake. The cacophony of cracks and pops that follow as it draws itself up to its full height in a series of halting, jerky movements is enough to make Dean’s hair stand on end. He barely gets a glimpse of a long muzzle that has to be a good eight feet up, all odd angles and sharp bloodstained teeth— and then the thing skitters straight up the side of the wall and smashes out the narrow window near the rafters.
“Move, move, MOVE!” Dean shouts at Sam, and takes off running around the side of the barn. Sam sprints after him, swearing.
They’re too late. By the time they skid around the corner, there’s nothing at the back of the barn but a shattered window and the wide expanse of Missy’s land stretching miles into the distance, tall grass still almost perfectly unmoving in the heavy night air.