Spreading Roots

Marilyn just didn't know when to stop.

Dean wasn't even parked outside of the semi-familiar house and she was already rapping on his baby's passenger side window. Yes, the Impala may have been totaled one too many times, but he didn't take kindly to people nearly beating his window out. He groaned as soon as he caught sight of her face, quite literally pressed against the window. With her gray-at-the-roots hair, murky brown-green eyes and massive worry lines, Dean concluded that the middle-aged woman hadn't changed much at all.

Those shots of bourbon he downed just a little earlier weren't near enough to deal with that.

“Oh, Dean,” she gushed, her voice a little raspy from maybe smoking her fair share of cigarettes. Dean frowned, noting that she was around the car in a split second to greet him when he got out. “Thank you for coming—I wasn't expecting you so soon!”

Geez lady, ease up a little will you? But it was true. With nothing else to do and needing something… anything to distract him, Dean drove all night from Indiana all the way up to this tiny town in Minnesota. An entire eleven hour drive done in one night. He couldn't remember the last time he slept.

“It's nothing, Ms. Baker,” he muttered, and then was slightly surprised at himself. That was what he called her all those years ago, during his time spent in the house across from them and with Kara. Too bad she wasn't there to greet him, too. Maybe Marilyn wouldn't be so crazy then.

He stuck out his hand for her to shake and mentally groaned when she took it and pulled him into a tight hug. In truth his feelings were split, not knowing whether or not Marilyn was always this friendly or she was just desperate. From what he remembered of the cold, stony-faced woman from years ago he would willingly bet on the latter. Something must have been up. After the tense hug, Marilyn left no time to do anything else, having not even invited him into her house.

So he stood out in the chilly autumn weather and listened to Marilyn's story. It was the same old same old, stuff he heard time and time again. The lights flickered, stuff moved around, there was a distinct scratching in the walls. Crap got knocked over. It sounded like a vengeful spirit or a poltergeist, something hopefully a simple Salt and Burn would fix.

In the end he only listened to half of the things she listed off. Yes, she may have been nearly crying in fright as she recalled all the incidents, but now that Dean was there she really didn't have much to worry about. He could do this with his eyes closed.

Or maybe he was just tired of it all.

“Come inside,” she finally offered, and Dean offhandedly rolled his eyes. About time. “You must have been driving all night, poor thing. I'll make you a nice cup of cocoa.”

He wasn't in the mood for either of her advances, wishing it was Lisa doing those things for him instead… preferably with a nice bottle of scotch instead of the cocoa. That ship had sailed, though. No use in thinking about Lisa anymore; no, he had to focus on the job at hand. Absentmindedly, Dean wondered if Marilyn had any other kids aside from Kara as they made their way up the yard and eventually into the house. He certainly couldn't remember any, it had just been the two. No husband, either. She probably lived alone.

A wave of nostalgia hit him the instant he stepped foot inside the old house. Aside from the paint, it hadn't changed at all either. When he sat down on a tiny, floral print sofa in the living room and heard that alarming but familiar squeak, he was sure the living room set was the same too. The place even still smelled like vanilla and blown-out candles, something he hadn't taken too kindly to when he was there all those years ago.

Even though he would never admit it, he was glad he was in a place he somewhat recognized, and that he didn't have to dress up in a stuffy suit and pretend to be a federal agent or a health inspector to even get into this house. Marilyn's hospitality (however transparent) was paying off in her favor after all. Dean would take advantage of it while it was still there. Still, it all felt insanely weird without his brother by his side. Like a part of Dean was missing, as if he couldn't give this job his all because he wasn't complete, either.

Dean didn't get the cocoa he was promised.

Instead, as soon as he sat down on the comfortable worn loveseat, a stark contrast to the Impala's leather seats, a loud ruckus was heard below their feet. Several crashes shook the floor, and didn't stop for almost an entire minute. Dean froze and listened intently while Marilyn looked toward him, frantic and her stare penetrating while she nervously wrung her hands together.

"Oh my God, what was that? Do you think—what if it could be… it could be…" she stammered maniacally and then stopped short when the clattering abruptly stopped.

Dean stood, quickly getting into the groove of hunting again and sprang into action. There was something downstairs, and Dean was going to find the problem and squash it, preferably before the older woman next to him had a heart attack. With a shaking hand she pointed straight toward the kitchen where Dean faintly remembered another staircase, one that led to the basement.

“Listen to me, just calm down for a minute. I'm gonna check it out." He said halfheartedly, trying to take the situation as serious as he usually would have.

He rationalized that anything could have been down in that basement. Marilyn and himself could potentially be in grave danger. It was up to him and only him to protect them both, and that was definitely something he had to take seriously.

Paying no mind to how the kitchen looked, Dean listened to the stairs creak one by one as they—or it—crept up the staircase. Against the wall adjacent to the staircase, he held his breath and counted in his head when the creaking stopped, seeing their shadow cast on the linoleum tile in front of the stairs.

No weird smells or any more noises. His breath wasn’t fogging. Nothing too supernatural just yet. On one hand Dean hoped it was just a clumsy burglar, but on the other he wished for it to be a spirit or a monster. Something he could take care of so he’d get out of there as quickly as possible.

Out of nowhere a small hand snaked around the corner and took a fistful of his shirt, trying with all their might to push him backward for whatever brainless reason. He didn't budge. At first Dean was somewhat shocked and hesitated. It was more than likely human, but he couldn't fathom why they'd be hiding or trying to fight him.

Unless it really was a burglar.

Seeing as they weren't getting anywhere with pushing him away, Dean took ahold of the person's wrist and yanked them from around the corner, instinctively bending the kid's arm behind her back and holding it there.

Dean was shocked once again.

A kid? A girl no less had seriously just tried that. She was notably much shorter than him, too, standing at about five foot even, perhaps a little less. The chick had spunk, that was for sure, but he wasn't about to let her go.

Finally she glanced up at him, a glare already set and ready for him on her face. When he got a look at her, Dean was in for another shock that day. She had the same green eyes as him, and it felt as if he were staring into his own eyes for a moment.

“I live here, so there's no need to manhandle me.” She said saucily, after turning around even more in his hold to get a better look at him, sounding awfully out of breath. Dean couldn't take his eyes away from hers.

They also shared the same color hair, except hers was much longer, going down to just above her ribs. She wore a pair of boot-cut, washed out gray jeans, an oversized sweatshirt, and a pair of running shoes. Dean approved of her laid-back style.

“Devon?” Marilyn called, her straining voice making Dean cringe and tighten his hold on the girl's arm, but once he realized that what the girl, or Devon was saying was in fact true; she did live there and Marilyn did know her, he relinquished his hold on her arm.

After backing away from Dean, Devon turned around to face her then irate mother. While he thought Marilyn was going to overreact, and was judging from the look on her face, he wasn't about to get into the middle of that.

“Hey, Mom,” the smirk Devon pulled was mocking. Dean approved.

Stuttering, Marilyn matched her daughter's glare (Dean assumed they were related), giving her a tight lipped sneer. “I—I can't believe you! You scared us nearly to death, Devon Caroline.”

“Ouch,” the kid mumbled, and Dean swore she almost looked blue in the face. Marilyn seemed not to even notice that small fact, while Dean was admittedly growing more concerned for Devon by the second. “Double whammy. You know it's serious now.”

If it was under any other circumstance, and Dean actually knew these people, he would have laughed at Devon's remark. Naturally he went with the next best thing and cracked a small smile in her direction, actually feeling a little bad for nearly jumping her earlier.

They both ignored the still-ranting woman and Dean turned toward her, offering her his hand. “Sorry about earlier, kid. Marilyn didn't tell me anyone else was home. Name's Dean,” he tried to keep a smile on his face as best as he could, but didn't see much of a point in any of it.

The only unsurprising thing to happen so far; Devon refused to shake his hand. She was a lot different from her mother in that case. Unaffected, Dean retracted his hand and placed it back in his jean pocket. Marilyn stopped talking in the matter of a split second, and Dean shot an odd look between both Devon and her mother. What exactly just happened?

Devon seemed to know the exact reason, and fidgeted under Marilyn's harsh gaze. He still couldn't understand why Marilyn was freaking out or why no one, including Devon herself, seemed to notice that she was nearly going blue in the face.

“Why aren't you at work?” The shorter, scrawnier Baker asked, and Dean knew then she was hiding something, or at the very least trying to keep it from her mom.

Quick with a retort, Marilyn seemed to finally calm down, at least from her fright, and rested a rigid hand on her hip. “Why aren't you at school?”

“Touché…” Devon pursed her lips and then broke out into a full grin, even though she was gasping for air. The kid finally seemed to notice this, and looked to some extent panicked. “I was—suspended.”

For another few minutes, Dean observed the duo with fierce intensity. Marilyn would get angry over the smallest things, and Devon would be quick to run her mouth. That seemed to be the trending thing for the two. Devon reminded him a lot of himself and he was intrigued by the tiny, tough kid. “Listen,” Devon said, waving off whatever her mom just said and jabbed her thumb back toward Dean. He tensed at the acknowledgment, wondering what she could possibly have to say about him. “I'm guessing he's here for a reason. So I’ll leave you two alone.”

Then she booked it straight out of the house, but not before sending a smirk back to both Dean and Marilyn. Left wondering what the hell had just happened, Dean stared down through the hall and out to the front door Devon just went through.

It was a lot to take in, the dynamics between those two. This job was proving to be more interesting, and thankfully distracting, than Dean had originally predicted it to be. He wondered why Marilyn seemed completely unconcerned for her daughter, and why Devon showed such little worry for herself.

These next few days were going to be hard without Sam by his side, but Dean would have to persevere. If not for himself, but for the two people he just met. Especially Devon. Now that a kid was involved, Dean had to make sure no one was hurt and that he solved whatever was happening to Marilyn.

And for that to happen, he was going to have to question Devon and see what she had witnessed, too. Oh, he thought sarcastically. This is going to be loads'a fun.