Spreading Roots

It's funny how trouble really did just seem to follow Dean. Even after a pointless day of following Marilyn to work, during her lunch break (where, might he add, nothing weird happened) and generally being stalker-ish, Dean quite literally stumbled across a crime scene on the way to his car.

By the time he eyed the town house, just after five p.m., the police had descended on the place hours ago. They were still layering tape around the parameter of the house and sectioning it off from the rest of the otherwise picturesque street. For it being such a small town, Dean would have thought that Lake Crystal's residents would have been maggoty on this particular scene. Instead they only watched from their yards and peered through curtained windows.

Okay. Weird.

And judging by the amount of police officers patrolling, this just might have been his kind of weird. So, while trying to be inconspicuous but more likely than not achieving the opposite effect, Dean parked his Impala a block over, grabbed one of his many badges from his stash is the glove compartment, and made his way over.

He reasoned with himself that there was nothing better to do. Whatever happened to Kara had been kept under surprisingly tight wraps—there were only a couple of news reports to sift through about it; there were never any specifics about how she even died.

That was odd, because he knew her death was unnatural. Marilyn even divulged that much with him.

Because werewolves weren't known to be gentle creatures. Especially with their prey.

It would have stirred something up within such a tiny town. Somebody would have talked, and others would have listened.

Dead ends everywhere. In his life and in this job. Dammit, Dean felt as if this case meant more to him than anything else in the world for some Godforsaken reason. Maybe because he was without Sammy for the first time and he had to prove himself he could carry on. But right then, and hell ever since Sammy fell down in that hole, Dean couldn't see it.

Not moments later, Dean paraded around with his flawlessly fraudulent badge under the guise of an FBI agent. Even still, as if in a perpetual down spiral he hated the thought of doing this without his little brother. And moreover was the fact that Sammy had always been the 'good cop' in their duo, in that he was always there to rein Dean in when he got too gruff or callous with whomever they were 'interviewing.'

Sam had the soul they both needed. The compassion that Dean just didn't possess. His kindness everyone just loved to indulge in.

Dean would have an especially hard time doing that today. He was on an unknown time limit fighting against something that mightn't even be real.

On top of that, Dean was worried about the kid. He hadn't seen Devon in two days. Not since the night Marilyn jumped completely off her rocker. After witnessing that explosion, Dean wasn't quite sure what to think any more.

All he was sure of was that if something was trying to hurt Devon, he’d take care of it.

So no, niceties weren't really at the top of his priority list.

Dean spent a moment trying to pick the best target, though with police, the pickings were usually slim. He settled for a man in his late twenties who didn't really look like he knew what he was doing, holding a clipboard and staring up in the house in almost awe.

"Officer," he greeted, trying not to sound as monotonous as it felt to say it. He coolly flashed his badge. He searched the man's breast pocket for some semblance of a name. "Burke. Agent Young."

Office Burke glanced at him before he resumed staring up at the house. "I didn't think the FBI would have any involvement in this."

Yeah, they probably wouldn't. Since the dude was half out of it, Dean chose to just ignore him. "So what happened here?"

"An older woman, Phyllis Edwards, was stabbed. Sixty years old," Burke sounded like he was reading off a piece of paper. As if he didn't want to believe it. "Jesus, it looks like someone threw a drawer of knives at her."

Or something. Dean managed a grimace, as if it was one of the most gruesome things he ever heard. "Got any leads?"

Burke supplied another hapless shrug. "As far as we can tell, Phyllis was a quiet lady. Kept to herself. No enemies known of."

Dean had to resist the curse about to erupt from his chapped lips. There had to be something. "Where's her family? I'd like to get an interview."

To ask the usual questions. Surely nothing this cop would think of—anything weird occur before she kicked the bucket? Either inside the house... along the same lines as what he'd asked Marilyn. But he would want to know if Phyllis’ behaviour had sparked any concern. Surely, he hadn't had to ask Marilyn that one.

Adjusting his clipboard, Burke scribbled something down onto the paper and gave Dean a muted shake of his head. "No family," Burke all of sudden didn't look too into sharing information with Dean. He went pale, as if he recalled something. Only after Dean shot him an incredulous look did he divulge. "In nineteen ninety seven her daughter committed suicide. Audrey. I knew her in high school. Since then Phyllis has been a shut-in."

"So she had nobody." Dean wasn’t surprised. That sort of thing scars a person. To the point of seclusion. "So no leads?"

"Well..." Burke sure didn't want Dean in the know on this one. He glanced around, as if wanting to find one of his superiors to deal with Dean's questioning.

"Look, I'm not here to draw this investigation out. I had to come out to be sure everything's going to protocol. Cross the T's, dot the I's sort of thing. Level with me."

“A neighbour down the street says she saw something—the one who called it in. But… she’s not very credible, Agent Young.”

"What's her address?" Dean cut to the chase. Burke couldn't give him any more. Jesus, everyone seemed clueless on this one. It was rare when the police had not a single thing to check up on. This witness must have been a real piece of work if they didn't even want to question her further.

After Officer Burke gave Dean an address and her name, Beth O'Toole, Dean set off down the street. She lived at the end of the block, so he wondered how much she'd really been able to see.

One thing Dean could take from this: this whole thing had his kind of funny written all over it. Dean knew from first-hand experience that if the police are calling this witness crazy, she probably had information he could use.

The old two-story Dean approached had for certain seen better days. His hands in his pockets and eyes glued to all the windows of the house (all of which were heavily curtained), he wondered if he should even try. In truth, all he wanted to do was go home to his bottle of scotch.

But the kid. Dammit, the kid.

With a groan and expectations of his flavour of crazy, Dean knocked on the door in two heavy raps. It wasn't but seconds later it opened in a sudden, jerky movement, but only a crack. "Who is it?" A gravelly voice demanded.

He stuck his badge through the crack in the door, hand brushing against the cold metal of the chain lock still attached as he did so. "Agent Young, FBI."

And then, before he could blink, an old wrinkly hand shot out to grasp the lapels of his jacket and yanked him inside the house. On instinct his hand reached for the pistol hidden inside his jacket, but then his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting and he stared down at a five-foot-nothing flake of an old lady.

How the hell had she managed to do that?

"Come in, Agent, I've been waiting for you," she spoke in a hushed murmur and tugged him into a stuffy living room. He sat on a love seat while she sat across from him, wringing her hands.

She might have been wearing an old pink thing in close resemblance to a moo-moo and she might have looked close to eighty years old, but this old lady was a whirlwind.

"Ma'am," Dean started, trying to keep some grasp on his act. Remember, don't get too into crazy just yet. Even though everything about Beth outright screamed crazy. "I'm here about—"

"Yes, you're here about Phyllis. I..." She stopped and looked down, her lip twitching as she tried to get it out. "I saw."

"You saw what?" This old bat was creepier than Marilyn.

"I saw, but those policemen didn't believe me. They think just because I'm an old doll my eyes and ears don't work the way they're supposed to." As if she suddenly recalled something, Beth looked up at him with renewed determination. "And I heard her scream. But they wouldn't listen to me."

Alright, Dean. For once you're the sane one in the situation. He kept his voice level. "Mrs. O'Toole, what exactly did you witness? Tell me."

Old Beth looked shocked. "You really want to hear my story?"

Jesus. I guess.

But Beth didn’t even wait for a response before she launched into the story. "Well, I was on my way home from my podiatrist appointment—to have my corns looked at, you know," even after a year spent in hell, the thought of this old lady's corns was enough to have Dean on the verge on throwing up. "And I had to pass by Phyllis' house. We used to be friends... before."

She made a wild gesture with one hand, and Dean knew what he was talking about. Before Phyllis' daughter killed herself.

"So when I heard her scream I... I went to check on her. But I didn't make it to the door before she," Beth shook her head. "Listen, boy. One thing I know for sure is that no one else was in there with her. She was... she was screaming. To Audrey."

Well holy shit. They have a hit. "Her daughter?" Dean asked, doing his best to sound disbelieving.

"Yes, yes. Her daughter. Something about her secret. I can't… I don't know how to explain it better. That's all I heard before I called the police."

The next five minutes were spent ensuring Mrs. O'Toole she wasn't crazy and denying her offer to stay for a cup of tea while he was at it. And finally, Dean managed to get himself out of the house after Beth wrenched him into a hug at the door. "I'll make sure I get to the truth, Mrs. O'Toole. Just don't involve yourself with the investigation, alright? And keep your doors locked."

For a minute there, Dean thought he actually sounded like his little brother. He thought on some level that it really should have been Sammy here instead of him.

But now Dean had something to do, so he would have to shelve his scotch for the night. Because after he dug up every bit of dirt on the Edwards family as he possibly could, he might just have to do a salt and burn.