Fic: Thicker Than Water 3/?
Title: Thicker Than Water 3/?
Author: dragon_fall
Fandoms: Supernatural/True Blood
Rating: R
Warnings: none yet
Summary: Dean and Sam roll into Bon Temps in search of answers and find more problems than they ever would have imagined.
Author's Note: Takes place after Lucifer Rising and at the beginning of True Blood Season 2. Since I started writing this months ago it is AU in the True Blood universe, but pieces from this season will be working themselves in.
Detective Andy Bellefleur grimaced as they tucked another body part into the heavy coroner's bag. First it was fang-bangers getting killed, now this. In the past few months he'd seen more homicides than he saw in three normal years. It was why he wanted to be a detective here, not in Shreveport or New Orleans; small towns meant less major crime.
Normal ones did, anyway.
"What the hell is wrong with this town," he said aloud.
"Andy?" Sheriff Dearborn called from the kitchen.
The detective shook his head, sidestepping the evidence grid. Sarah Josh hadn't just been killed. She'd been hacked to pieces and scattered around her living room. There were symbols written in blood everywhere, and they still hadn't found her head. Or her heart. "We got a lead on the boyfriend yet?" he asked as he stepped into the kitchen.
"Coupl'a the boys went by his place and picked him up," Dearborn answered. "He hasn't said anything yet, besides asking what we want him for. Kenya said he was jumpy, though."
"You think he coulda done this?" Bellefleur asked.
The kitchen was carnage free, if you ignored the sink full of knives that had obviously been used to cut the girl up. The forensics team was still clearing them away, photographing each one before it was bagged and tagged.
"Far as I can remember Jesse Spencer faints at the sight of blood," Sheriff Dearborn said. "Remember when that Palmer girl fell off her roof when he was working the property?"
Andy felt a laugh tickle his chest before he faded away. Miranda Palmer had fallen off her roof trying to get a ball out of the gutter while Spencer was cutting the lawn. She'd cut her leg open on the way down, but the ambulance had been more concerned with him; he'd fainted and hit his head on a stone bench.
"Just please tell me we don’t got another psycho on our hands," Andy muttered. Let this be something they could pass on to the surrounding towns.
"There was no forced entry, which meant she probably knew her killer," Dearborn reminded him.
Any huffed. "I know that." But he could still hope. Maybe she'd been careless and left the door unlocked so some sick fuck could just waltz in and do whatever he wanted with her. The next best thing was Jesse Spencer had killed his girlfriend. Either way, there would be no more bodies to pick up.
The coroner poked his head around the corner. "We're just about done here, Sheriff Dearborn, Andy." He told them. "We still haven't found the head, though."
"All right, Mike," the sheriff said. "Well, we'll have to search Spencer's place. Nell's already working on the warrant."
"You think we'll find the head there?"
Sheriff Dearborn turned around and headed for the door. "If we're lucky."
"Sam, look at this."
Sam finished throwing on a clean shirt. The local news was covering a homicide, the usual wide angel shots of the coroner moving the body to the transport van.
"We can neither confirm nor deny that there were satanic symbols found at the scene," the reporter for the KTAL news said. "Residents here say this is a grisly reminder of the murders that shocked the small Bon Temps community less than six months ago. We have been told that the local police have a suspect in custody, and we'll be following this case as it develops."
"Looks like we might have a job," Dean said as he pressed mute.
"Yeah, looks like."
The older Winchester pulled on his boots. "So, what's the story this time? Reporters? FBI?"
"FBI'd get us more information."
Sam smirked when Dean sighed. His brother hated wearing the suit. "Who were we last time? Tyler and Perry?"
"I used Nugent," he muttered. "We haven't used Stiles and Murdock for a while."
The FBI angle was more work than Dean liked putting out. It meant finding a drycleaner's and getting their suits done, making sure all their ID's were in order in case they ran up against thorough cops, and calling Bobby to let him know to cover their asses in case they needed to be verified. Even if they covered all their bases there was the problem of real FBI agents showing up.
"You think we should rent a car?"
"What?"
Dean fidgeted. "FBI agents usually rent cars when they're on assignment. Make us look more legit, you know?"
Sam eyed his brother. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing." He threw the yellow pages at his brother. "Find us a one hour dry cleaner."
Dean sighed when he closed the door to the bathroom. The small room was filled with steam from his brother, ghosting over his skin in moist trails.
By the time he was out of the shower Sam was gone with the Impala. He's circled a drycleaners in the next town over, just to be safe. You never knew who would show up and start blowing holes in your story in a small town. All it took sometime was a single person recognizing you from somewhere else, or for the little old lady who couldn't remember the name of her cat to recall that the name on your credit card didn't match an alias you were giving everyone else.
Dean Hampton, right?
Dean ran a hand down his face. Damn it, that's what happened when a job fell in your lap when you were already in town. He just hoped Sookie didn't moonlight at the local station as a secretary. If their luck held she'd never have an opportunity to point out that he'd given her another name last night, or that he'd introduced Sam as his brother, not his partner. They could just get in, take a look around, and get out before their cover blew up in the faces. He almost laughed out loud at the thought.
When had they ever had luck that good?
With a shake Dean texted his brother to come back. They could milk the reporter angle mixed with a little B and E. Push came to shove they could call Bobby and have him pose as a fed. In the meantime the newscaster had mentioned a string of murders less than six months ago. It was as good a place to start as any.
"One of the cops said her heart had been ripped out."
"Wow, that's crazy," Dean said, leaning slightly against the counter. He added a little more husk to his voice. "Anything else?"
It never ceased to amaze him how willing people were to give out vital information to complete strangers. The right amount of teasing, of promise, and he could probably get the woman he was talking to to give him the social's of everyone in town. Which might prove useful later on if they needed to scam for new credit cards.
The blonde leaned towards him, until there was barely any space between them. "They said there was all kinda satanic stuff painted on the walls in her own blood," she whispered. "Andy, that's Detective Bellefleur, said they might call in some specialist from the FBI."
Dean fought the urge to swallow. "Anything else you can think of?"
The secretary shook her head. "Not right now. But if you give me your number I'm sure I'll know somethin' a little latter. It's been hell here the past few months. I mean, first all those fang-bangers, then this…"
"Fang-bangers?" Dean coaxed.
"Couple a months ago, Rene… his real name was Drew Marshall, went on a killin' spree, strangling fangers with his belt. He tried to kill Sookie Stackhouse, but she killed him. Took his head clean off with a shovel."
"Nell!"
The secretary slid back over the counter at the shout and Dean turned. "Detective Bellfleur," she said, voice pitched high. "This is-"
"Dean Hampton," he finished, flashing a press badge. "Shreveport Examiner."
Dean had Detective Bellefleur pegged in an instant. Ex-jocks were easy to spot, mostly by the way their stomach and head tended to gain weight before anything else. He also had the bleary-eyed look of someone who'd spent the night sucking on a bottle. The detective leaned in. "What son? Didn't get enough gore at the crime scene?"
"Actually, I was a little late," he said, forcing himself to smile. "I was hoping you'd be able to give me a one-on-one interview. You know, just something you'd like the people to know."
Bellefleur huffed. "Listen, kid, this is an ongoing investigation. I don’t got nothin' to say to you, or any other reporter."
"Look, I'll level with you," Dean put on his most earnest expression. "I just started working at the Examiner. If I don't come back with something my boss is gonna fire me."
The detective just stared at him a minute before walking towards the back of the precinct. "I'll make it worth your while." Dean continued as he followed. "Get your name in the papers." He smiled broadly. "You know these people better than I ever could, man. There's all kinds of things you could tell me that wouldn't compromise the investigation."
The detective looked like he was on the fence, then he shook his head. "Can't do it."
Dean heaved a sigh. "If that's your final word-"
"It is," Bellefleur said. "Now beat it."
Dean walked out of the precinct and shoved the small notepad into his pocket. He'd gotten everything they needed.
"I didn't kill anybody, you gotta believe me."
"Okay Jesse," Sam soothed. "I believe you. Just tell me what did happen."
The redhead glanced between him and the sheriff. "Yeah, like you'll believe me." He raked his hands over his head, leaving red scratches behind.
Sam liked to think he was good at knowing when someone was lying. Humans, at any rate. Most people just weren't equipped to lie to someone they perceived as having power over them. They fidgeted, refused to meet the eye, and did a hundred other things that gave them away. Jesse Spencer looked sick, scared, and in danger of passing out, but he didn't look like he was lying.
"Jesse, you have to give us something," Sheriff Dearborn told him. "We have a witness that places you at the scene around two AM. Your girlfriend was killed sometime between two and eight this morning. Now if you know anything-"
"It was a dream!"
Sam latched onto that. "Sheriff, if you could give us a minute?" he asked.
Dearborn nodded, then went to the door. "I'll be right outside, you need anything," he said before closing the door behind him.
Sam waited a minute before turning his attention back to Jesse. "A dream?" he prompted softly.
Frightened grey eyes went to his. "I had this dream last night," he started. "I mean, me and Sarah had a fight, she kicked me out, and I went home." His eyes unfocused. "There was a storm, or something, last night, right?"
"I wouldn't know," Sam answered truthfully.
He nodded. "Well, there was. At least by my place. And… and the streetlight blew out in front of my house." He sped up as he spoke. "Then I must have gone to sleep… cause…" he trailed off, eyes filling with tears.
"Jesse?"
The man looked at him again. "I had the most awful dream." His gaze settled on the table. "I was at Sarah's house… but it wasn't me. I… hit…her…" He touched the back of his head. "I…" the tears fell and he hung his head. "I don’t…"
Sam leaned forward. "What happened, Jesse?" he asked softly.
Jesse's head came up. "It was just a dream," he said. "I woke up at home, in bed. Then Kenya's knockin' on my door, and I'm sittin' in here for hours and no one's telling me what's going on. Then you tell me Sarah's…" His hands fisted in his hair. "I didn't kill her." He shook his head, wiping his nose. "I know I didn't kill her. You're supposed to be my lawyer, right? You gotta believe me."
"Okay, Jesse." He shoved his papers into his carryall. "I'll be back later, okay? In the meantime, you don't have to talk to anyone."
He knocked on the door and the sheriff peeked in before opening it wide enough to let Sam out. He glanced at Jesse."We'll get you something to clean up with, all right, son?"
The redhead nodded, resting his head on folded arms.
"Well, what do you think?" Sam asked as they walked down the hall.
"You haven't been on the job long, have you, son?" The sheriff asked.
Sam smiled shortly. "Actually, this is my first real case," he ducked his head. "They'll probably send someone out with more experience when I tell them what I saw in there. I just wanted to know what you thought of it."
"I think he's guilty," the sheriff replied. "But I don't think he was in his right mind when he did it."
"I agree with you there."
"It's a shame," Sheriff Dearborn sighed heavily. "I've known him since he was a kid. Sarah Josh may have lived wild, but she didn't deserve to die like that."
"People seldom do."
There must have been something in his voice of expression that made the sheriff stop and give him an assessing look. "You all right, son?"
"Fine." Sam half-smiled as he walked out of the jail.
Dean was waiting for him three blocks from the police station like they’d planned. “So…” he drawled after pulling the door to the Impala shut. “Possession?”
“Might be.” Sam headed for their hotel.
Sarah Josh's house was abandoned by the time ten o'clock rolled around. Every local news channel had bilked the site for all it was worth and moved on to other pastures, the initial forensics team was done for the night. The house was actually a trailer set far back on an oversized lot, nearly hidden by the surrounding trees and bushes. The main building had been added onto over the years, the end result misshapen and slightly off. The steps were cut cement blocks painted over with spray paint.
"Gotta love these doors," Dean smirked as he picked the lock. The main trailer itself was old, with a lock that hadn't been updated since before 1960; easy to pick without breaking the mechanism and tipping someone off.
Sam's nose crinkled as the smell of blood hit him. The humidity meant it didn't dry, not completely, so the odor stayed heavy and rank on the air.
"You'd think they woulda cracked a window," his brother groused as he sidestepped the police tape.
The inside of the house was once cozy, but was currently littered with forensics markers. The furniture was piled against the walls; the couch upended and leaning precariously against several dining room chairs. Sam squatted down on the outside of a large circle spray-painted on the floor, his flashlight sweeping the walls quickly.
“This wasn’t some wannabe Satanist,” Dean commented, flashlight zeroing in on a section of wall covered in blood. .
"Whatever this demon was doing, this is some serious spell work." Sam shone the light in the center of the living room. A symbol had been painted on the floor in what looked like black spray paint until he looked closer. He could just make out slight indentations in the dim light. "It burned this into the floorboards."
"Our boy wasn't half-assed." Dean pointed to a complex array of symbols on one wall. "That's angel-proofing." He flashed his light on the other wall. "Same here."
"He didn't want interruptions," the younger brother said softly.
"The news said the girl was cut up, and that they found evidence at the boyfriend's house."
Sam shook his head. "This doesn't make any sense, Dean. Demons don't set their victims up to take the fall in a homicide."
"Yeah," Dean grimaced. "They don't play arts and crafts with their kills either." He stopped, then half-turned. "That's north, right Sammy?" he said, nodding to a wall.
"Yeah Dean. Why?"
Sam watched as his brother traced the crime scene with his flashlight. He knew the look. Dean had found something; a pattern or a memory that might help them get the thing that did it.
"Four corners," he said finally.
Sam's eyebrows went up. "Okay," he drawled.
"The hands were there," Dean flashed his light on two points on the circle. "From the pictures I'm guessin' the head was there, facing north." His arm fell. "This thing was summoning something."
"Question is what."
"Don't know." Dean looked at his watch. "But we got a date with a hoodoo woman in about an hour and a half."
Next
_____________________________________________________
Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed ^_^
Author: dragon_fall
Fandoms: Supernatural/True Blood
Rating: R
Warnings: none yet
Summary: Dean and Sam roll into Bon Temps in search of answers and find more problems than they ever would have imagined.
Author's Note: Takes place after Lucifer Rising and at the beginning of True Blood Season 2. Since I started writing this months ago it is AU in the True Blood universe, but pieces from this season will be working themselves in.
Detective Andy Bellefleur grimaced as they tucked another body part into the heavy coroner's bag. First it was fang-bangers getting killed, now this. In the past few months he'd seen more homicides than he saw in three normal years. It was why he wanted to be a detective here, not in Shreveport or New Orleans; small towns meant less major crime.
Normal ones did, anyway.
"What the hell is wrong with this town," he said aloud.
"Andy?" Sheriff Dearborn called from the kitchen.
The detective shook his head, sidestepping the evidence grid. Sarah Josh hadn't just been killed. She'd been hacked to pieces and scattered around her living room. There were symbols written in blood everywhere, and they still hadn't found her head. Or her heart. "We got a lead on the boyfriend yet?" he asked as he stepped into the kitchen.
"Coupl'a the boys went by his place and picked him up," Dearborn answered. "He hasn't said anything yet, besides asking what we want him for. Kenya said he was jumpy, though."
"You think he coulda done this?" Bellefleur asked.
The kitchen was carnage free, if you ignored the sink full of knives that had obviously been used to cut the girl up. The forensics team was still clearing them away, photographing each one before it was bagged and tagged.
"Far as I can remember Jesse Spencer faints at the sight of blood," Sheriff Dearborn said. "Remember when that Palmer girl fell off her roof when he was working the property?"
Andy felt a laugh tickle his chest before he faded away. Miranda Palmer had fallen off her roof trying to get a ball out of the gutter while Spencer was cutting the lawn. She'd cut her leg open on the way down, but the ambulance had been more concerned with him; he'd fainted and hit his head on a stone bench.
"Just please tell me we don’t got another psycho on our hands," Andy muttered. Let this be something they could pass on to the surrounding towns.
"There was no forced entry, which meant she probably knew her killer," Dearborn reminded him.
Any huffed. "I know that." But he could still hope. Maybe she'd been careless and left the door unlocked so some sick fuck could just waltz in and do whatever he wanted with her. The next best thing was Jesse Spencer had killed his girlfriend. Either way, there would be no more bodies to pick up.
The coroner poked his head around the corner. "We're just about done here, Sheriff Dearborn, Andy." He told them. "We still haven't found the head, though."
"All right, Mike," the sheriff said. "Well, we'll have to search Spencer's place. Nell's already working on the warrant."
"You think we'll find the head there?"
Sheriff Dearborn turned around and headed for the door. "If we're lucky."
"Sam, look at this."
Sam finished throwing on a clean shirt. The local news was covering a homicide, the usual wide angel shots of the coroner moving the body to the transport van.
"We can neither confirm nor deny that there were satanic symbols found at the scene," the reporter for the KTAL news said. "Residents here say this is a grisly reminder of the murders that shocked the small Bon Temps community less than six months ago. We have been told that the local police have a suspect in custody, and we'll be following this case as it develops."
"Looks like we might have a job," Dean said as he pressed mute.
"Yeah, looks like."
The older Winchester pulled on his boots. "So, what's the story this time? Reporters? FBI?"
"FBI'd get us more information."
Sam smirked when Dean sighed. His brother hated wearing the suit. "Who were we last time? Tyler and Perry?"
"I used Nugent," he muttered. "We haven't used Stiles and Murdock for a while."
The FBI angle was more work than Dean liked putting out. It meant finding a drycleaner's and getting their suits done, making sure all their ID's were in order in case they ran up against thorough cops, and calling Bobby to let him know to cover their asses in case they needed to be verified. Even if they covered all their bases there was the problem of real FBI agents showing up.
"You think we should rent a car?"
"What?"
Dean fidgeted. "FBI agents usually rent cars when they're on assignment. Make us look more legit, you know?"
Sam eyed his brother. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing." He threw the yellow pages at his brother. "Find us a one hour dry cleaner."
Dean sighed when he closed the door to the bathroom. The small room was filled with steam from his brother, ghosting over his skin in moist trails.
By the time he was out of the shower Sam was gone with the Impala. He's circled a drycleaners in the next town over, just to be safe. You never knew who would show up and start blowing holes in your story in a small town. All it took sometime was a single person recognizing you from somewhere else, or for the little old lady who couldn't remember the name of her cat to recall that the name on your credit card didn't match an alias you were giving everyone else.
Dean Hampton, right?
Dean ran a hand down his face. Damn it, that's what happened when a job fell in your lap when you were already in town. He just hoped Sookie didn't moonlight at the local station as a secretary. If their luck held she'd never have an opportunity to point out that he'd given her another name last night, or that he'd introduced Sam as his brother, not his partner. They could just get in, take a look around, and get out before their cover blew up in the faces. He almost laughed out loud at the thought.
When had they ever had luck that good?
With a shake Dean texted his brother to come back. They could milk the reporter angle mixed with a little B and E. Push came to shove they could call Bobby and have him pose as a fed. In the meantime the newscaster had mentioned a string of murders less than six months ago. It was as good a place to start as any.
"One of the cops said her heart had been ripped out."
"Wow, that's crazy," Dean said, leaning slightly against the counter. He added a little more husk to his voice. "Anything else?"
It never ceased to amaze him how willing people were to give out vital information to complete strangers. The right amount of teasing, of promise, and he could probably get the woman he was talking to to give him the social's of everyone in town. Which might prove useful later on if they needed to scam for new credit cards.
The blonde leaned towards him, until there was barely any space between them. "They said there was all kinda satanic stuff painted on the walls in her own blood," she whispered. "Andy, that's Detective Bellefleur, said they might call in some specialist from the FBI."
Dean fought the urge to swallow. "Anything else you can think of?"
The secretary shook her head. "Not right now. But if you give me your number I'm sure I'll know somethin' a little latter. It's been hell here the past few months. I mean, first all those fang-bangers, then this…"
"Fang-bangers?" Dean coaxed.
"Couple a months ago, Rene… his real name was Drew Marshall, went on a killin' spree, strangling fangers with his belt. He tried to kill Sookie Stackhouse, but she killed him. Took his head clean off with a shovel."
"Nell!"
The secretary slid back over the counter at the shout and Dean turned. "Detective Bellfleur," she said, voice pitched high. "This is-"
"Dean Hampton," he finished, flashing a press badge. "Shreveport Examiner."
Dean had Detective Bellefleur pegged in an instant. Ex-jocks were easy to spot, mostly by the way their stomach and head tended to gain weight before anything else. He also had the bleary-eyed look of someone who'd spent the night sucking on a bottle. The detective leaned in. "What son? Didn't get enough gore at the crime scene?"
"Actually, I was a little late," he said, forcing himself to smile. "I was hoping you'd be able to give me a one-on-one interview. You know, just something you'd like the people to know."
Bellefleur huffed. "Listen, kid, this is an ongoing investigation. I don’t got nothin' to say to you, or any other reporter."
"Look, I'll level with you," Dean put on his most earnest expression. "I just started working at the Examiner. If I don't come back with something my boss is gonna fire me."
The detective just stared at him a minute before walking towards the back of the precinct. "I'll make it worth your while." Dean continued as he followed. "Get your name in the papers." He smiled broadly. "You know these people better than I ever could, man. There's all kinds of things you could tell me that wouldn't compromise the investigation."
The detective looked like he was on the fence, then he shook his head. "Can't do it."
Dean heaved a sigh. "If that's your final word-"
"It is," Bellefleur said. "Now beat it."
Dean walked out of the precinct and shoved the small notepad into his pocket. He'd gotten everything they needed.
"I didn't kill anybody, you gotta believe me."
"Okay Jesse," Sam soothed. "I believe you. Just tell me what did happen."
The redhead glanced between him and the sheriff. "Yeah, like you'll believe me." He raked his hands over his head, leaving red scratches behind.
Sam liked to think he was good at knowing when someone was lying. Humans, at any rate. Most people just weren't equipped to lie to someone they perceived as having power over them. They fidgeted, refused to meet the eye, and did a hundred other things that gave them away. Jesse Spencer looked sick, scared, and in danger of passing out, but he didn't look like he was lying.
"Jesse, you have to give us something," Sheriff Dearborn told him. "We have a witness that places you at the scene around two AM. Your girlfriend was killed sometime between two and eight this morning. Now if you know anything-"
"It was a dream!"
Sam latched onto that. "Sheriff, if you could give us a minute?" he asked.
Dearborn nodded, then went to the door. "I'll be right outside, you need anything," he said before closing the door behind him.
Sam waited a minute before turning his attention back to Jesse. "A dream?" he prompted softly.
Frightened grey eyes went to his. "I had this dream last night," he started. "I mean, me and Sarah had a fight, she kicked me out, and I went home." His eyes unfocused. "There was a storm, or something, last night, right?"
"I wouldn't know," Sam answered truthfully.
He nodded. "Well, there was. At least by my place. And… and the streetlight blew out in front of my house." He sped up as he spoke. "Then I must have gone to sleep… cause…" he trailed off, eyes filling with tears.
"Jesse?"
The man looked at him again. "I had the most awful dream." His gaze settled on the table. "I was at Sarah's house… but it wasn't me. I… hit…her…" He touched the back of his head. "I…" the tears fell and he hung his head. "I don’t…"
Sam leaned forward. "What happened, Jesse?" he asked softly.
Jesse's head came up. "It was just a dream," he said. "I woke up at home, in bed. Then Kenya's knockin' on my door, and I'm sittin' in here for hours and no one's telling me what's going on. Then you tell me Sarah's…" His hands fisted in his hair. "I didn't kill her." He shook his head, wiping his nose. "I know I didn't kill her. You're supposed to be my lawyer, right? You gotta believe me."
"Okay, Jesse." He shoved his papers into his carryall. "I'll be back later, okay? In the meantime, you don't have to talk to anyone."
He knocked on the door and the sheriff peeked in before opening it wide enough to let Sam out. He glanced at Jesse."We'll get you something to clean up with, all right, son?"
The redhead nodded, resting his head on folded arms.
"Well, what do you think?" Sam asked as they walked down the hall.
"You haven't been on the job long, have you, son?" The sheriff asked.
Sam smiled shortly. "Actually, this is my first real case," he ducked his head. "They'll probably send someone out with more experience when I tell them what I saw in there. I just wanted to know what you thought of it."
"I think he's guilty," the sheriff replied. "But I don't think he was in his right mind when he did it."
"I agree with you there."
"It's a shame," Sheriff Dearborn sighed heavily. "I've known him since he was a kid. Sarah Josh may have lived wild, but she didn't deserve to die like that."
"People seldom do."
There must have been something in his voice of expression that made the sheriff stop and give him an assessing look. "You all right, son?"
"Fine." Sam half-smiled as he walked out of the jail.
Dean was waiting for him three blocks from the police station like they’d planned. “So…” he drawled after pulling the door to the Impala shut. “Possession?”
“Might be.” Sam headed for their hotel.
Sarah Josh's house was abandoned by the time ten o'clock rolled around. Every local news channel had bilked the site for all it was worth and moved on to other pastures, the initial forensics team was done for the night. The house was actually a trailer set far back on an oversized lot, nearly hidden by the surrounding trees and bushes. The main building had been added onto over the years, the end result misshapen and slightly off. The steps were cut cement blocks painted over with spray paint.
"Gotta love these doors," Dean smirked as he picked the lock. The main trailer itself was old, with a lock that hadn't been updated since before 1960; easy to pick without breaking the mechanism and tipping someone off.
Sam's nose crinkled as the smell of blood hit him. The humidity meant it didn't dry, not completely, so the odor stayed heavy and rank on the air.
"You'd think they woulda cracked a window," his brother groused as he sidestepped the police tape.
The inside of the house was once cozy, but was currently littered with forensics markers. The furniture was piled against the walls; the couch upended and leaning precariously against several dining room chairs. Sam squatted down on the outside of a large circle spray-painted on the floor, his flashlight sweeping the walls quickly.
“This wasn’t some wannabe Satanist,” Dean commented, flashlight zeroing in on a section of wall covered in blood. .
"Whatever this demon was doing, this is some serious spell work." Sam shone the light in the center of the living room. A symbol had been painted on the floor in what looked like black spray paint until he looked closer. He could just make out slight indentations in the dim light. "It burned this into the floorboards."
"Our boy wasn't half-assed." Dean pointed to a complex array of symbols on one wall. "That's angel-proofing." He flashed his light on the other wall. "Same here."
"He didn't want interruptions," the younger brother said softly.
"The news said the girl was cut up, and that they found evidence at the boyfriend's house."
Sam shook his head. "This doesn't make any sense, Dean. Demons don't set their victims up to take the fall in a homicide."
"Yeah," Dean grimaced. "They don't play arts and crafts with their kills either." He stopped, then half-turned. "That's north, right Sammy?" he said, nodding to a wall.
"Yeah Dean. Why?"
Sam watched as his brother traced the crime scene with his flashlight. He knew the look. Dean had found something; a pattern or a memory that might help them get the thing that did it.
"Four corners," he said finally.
Sam's eyebrows went up. "Okay," he drawled.
"The hands were there," Dean flashed his light on two points on the circle. "From the pictures I'm guessin' the head was there, facing north." His arm fell. "This thing was summoning something."
"Question is what."
"Don't know." Dean looked at his watch. "But we got a date with a hoodoo woman in about an hour and a half."
Next
_____________________________________________________
Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed ^_^