Title: Unnatural Causes

Notes: This is the sequel to "The Price of Happiness." Not necessary to read that one to understand this one, but it gets referenced a few times. Hope you enjoy. Reviews are appreciated.

oOoOoOo

Chilmark, Martha's Vineyard

Ana Crawford clawed her way up the shaking stairs from the basement. The whole house seemed to quake as though both the earth shook and the heavens were raining down. Her scream was caught in her throat as she gasped for breath, her side searing with pain as she pressed her hand there. She felt the hot, ooze from her insides spill through her fingers as she stumbled onto her kitchen floor. She dragged herself, the blood gushing from her wounds, making sliding easier but weakening her limbs. The phone was just yards away. The retired lawyer knew if she could just dial those three numbers, someone would come. They might not find her alive, but they would find her. With a little looking, they would also find the journal she hid—the one with her outrageous discovery and her shameful confession about what she had done.

Pawing the wood floor—the very planks she paid thousands of dollars to have restored in the last year—she splashed puddles of red on the shiny surface as she reached for the cord to tug the land line toward her. It tumbled from its perch and crashed to the floor nearly striking her in the face, but a last moment flinch saved her nose and teeth from the impact. Her fingers pressed the first two numbers, but before she could strike the last digit, the voice, a cold and hissing sounds like fingernails on a chalkboard accompanied by a putrid scent of death, filled the air making Ana freeze.

"Where is it?" it hissed.

"What?" Ana whimpered as her vision darkened and she grew cold. She never received an answer to her question as the invisible claws, the ones that carved into her in the basement, took one final swipe.

The phone beeped frantically as the call was left uncompleted as a bright arc of red spattered the freshly painted wainscoting of the remodeled kitchen. Ana remained on the floor as her heart beat its last, surrounded by the spray of her own blood with her eyes frozen open in fright.

oOoOoOo

The road rolled out like a long, unfurled ribbon. Sam sat in the passenger seat of the Impala listening to his brother sing along with the radio. The early spring sun was hovering in its last rays before beginning its descent for the evening. The sky was turning a soft, powder gray and the hints of chilly but fresh air from the new season flitted through the car. Sam took a deep breath and stretched his neck in the passenger seat after a long day of spent creeping along secondary roads following detours as the New England road crews began repairing the blacktop following a harsh winter. The pavement grew smoother and the air warmer and more invigorating the closer they drew to the Massachusetts coast.

Despite the road delays on this trip, things were good. Strangely good. The kind of good that made the younger Winchester ache because there weren't enough days like this and they usually ended too soon. The Winchesters had had a rough time the last few months, but for the moment Sam felt like counting his blessings for the last year wasn't such a bad idea.

First and top of the list: His brother was alive.

This realization was punctuated with a pang of lingering sadness as he turned his head to watch Dean piloting the black car, moving his lips as he sang along with Metallica's 'Unforgiven.' Sam pushed the irony of that from his mind, reminding himself that he was focusing on positive things for this list.

While Dean's return to Sam's life had come with its share of stress, anger, angst and trouble—what in Winchester's existence didn't-but what mattered most was that Sam's big brother was back and relatively whole again. Purgatory had leeched a lot of the emotional poison out of him and fortified his brother, shoring up the many and disastrous cracks that appeared the year the Leviathans invaded and Bobby was taken from them. Granted, Dean would always be damaged and (if left to his own choices and devices) would throw his life away because he didn't think it was worth much. But, the main point here remained valid: Despite the few speed bumps in their relationship during the last year, Sam was immeasurably glad Dean was back.

Yes, Sam had been pissed at his brother about his selective reporting regarding his escape from Purgatory; yes, Sam was pissed Dean turned to Benny the Fang for help; and yes, Dean still deserved a serious beat down for that stunt he pulled with the fake text message from Amelia that send Sam into a tailspin of worry and fury over her safety.

Still, that didn't change the important thing: Dean was alive.

Sam harbored an ocean of guilt over not looking for his brother when he disappeared after ganking Dick Roman, but from what Sam now knew about where Dean spent the previous year, searching wouldn't have changed anything… at least in the category of things that would have helped Dean escape monster land. The real damage was not Dean's stay in Purgatory but Sam's betrayal of not even looking. For Dean, a man who could see the value in any person's existence except his own, Sam not looking for him reinforced what the dark voices in his head told him: He wasn't worthy of anyone caring for him and the world was better off without him. In retrospect,Sam knew that even a little effort in looking for his big brother would have made his reunion with Dean go smoother. Dean had been hurt, possibly worse than any physical pain he ever sustained before (which truly was saying something), by Sam's admission that he didn't bother looking for his brother but instead quit hunting altogether once Dean vanished. The look of betrayal in Dean's eyes cut into Sam's heart as deeply as any dagger could. There was no making up for it, Sam knew. That was guilt he would need to carry forever.

But, at the moment, the wounds smarting between them appeared mostly healed, or at least no longer hemorrhaging.

They'd had their say, their nasty words, their physical blows—the typical Winchester protracted therapy session, if you will. Now, there was a calm in the storm that sometimes raged between them. At the moment, the winds were light and mild and the skies were clear. They were getting along, they were together, and they had a ghost hunt awaiting them at the end of this drive. A good old-fashion Winchester road trip.

Sure, there was the ominous, looming goal of closing the gates of hell forever on the horizon and the slow work of Kevin Tran, the prophet who hopefully could hand them the instructions on how to do just that. Over all, it didn't look like a good long-range forecast, but at the moment things were nearly fine. On this day, the big bad hadn't rear its ugly head. The Winchesters were coming off a few minor cases that ended up with no addition victims; no time in jail for either of them and (thankfully) not a single fight or death between them. They hadn't even had so much as a cross word toward each other in two weeks—not even the typical pointless spats that sometimes erupted due to very little sleep and too much time in close proximity to each other.

"Is this actually happening?" Sam asked suddenly.

"What?" Dean asked, looking at his brother with a quizzical expression.

"This," Sam nodded and twisted in his seat to look at Dean with a content but mildly uncertain smile on his face. "I'm just checking on whether I'm dreaming."

"You dream about riding around in the car with me?" Dean asked. "Dude, your dreams suck. At least put a chick in the car if you're going to dream about a road trip—oh, and when you do, make sure I am not anywhere near it. And get your own car. Baby only gets to appear in my dreams."

"I don't need a woman in my dreams, and I don't want your car," Sam said.

"I so do not understand any of that," Dean muttered as he shook his head disappointedly.

"No, Dean," Sam scoffed and chuckled. "I mean, we're having a good day. We've had a few of them lately, actually."

"We have?" Dean looked at him oddly. "Like when I got my head bashed in by that crazy spirit in Vermont and woke up in the past? Or the week before that when I found you unconscious on the floor of that warehouse in Oklahoma, like an inch from a cursed object that could have killed you? Those 'good' days? Or are you referring to the fact we took our time getting from Vermont to Cape Cod so you could go antiquing?"

Sam scowled at the accusation.

"It was one store that had books from an old estate; one of them might help out Kevin in deciphering the riddles the trials seem to come wrapped in," Sam sighed forcefully, trying to push all thoughts of the prophet out of his mind. "And I seem to recall you liking the Civil War sword collection there and spending a lot of time fondling the merchandise."

"Blades, dude," Dean grinned, sidestepping the slight with ease. "You know, one of those might have killed some guy whose spirit we tangled with in the Carolinas or Virginia before. Ever think about that? That's history."

"And you think history is cyclical?" Sam wondered and looked at his brothers scrunched brow. "You think it repeats itself naturally?"

"Might be cool if it did," Dean nodded. "I would so be getting a dinosaur."

"A dinosaur?" Sam gaped. "What are you, five?"

"Think about it," Dean insisted. "Our own T-Rex, Sammy. That would have been fun to chase the Leviathan, huh?"

Sam raised his eyebrows as he watched Dean's head bobbing eagerly while grinning. The younger Winchester carded his hand through his long hair as he shook his head in reply. Sam couldn't help but grin at the insanity and sincerity in Dean's voice, words and expression. His older brother might frustrate him and confuse the hell out of him with his sometimes overly linear (and, at other times, dangerously less than linear) thought patterns, but Sam could not undervalue the wealth of entertainment and comfort Dean could provide when he was simply rambling because he was in a good mood. It belied the intelligence he worked so hard to hide and the child in him that never got a chance to be a kid. Those light and carefree moments had been rare over the last several years and Sam had learned not to squander them.

And that, the younger Winchester reminded himself, was the point of this discussion.

"I meant that, despite everything going on, things haven't been too bad lately," Sam said. "It's been a long time since I could say that and actually believe it was true."

"A few good days and you think you're dreaming?" Dean nodded accepting the explanation. "Yeah, generally, our lives do suck way more than this. Don't worry, little brother, something's sure to go wrong soon. Good thing I don't have my dinosaur yet. He'd probably turn and eat me right now after hearing an opening like that."

Sam chuckled again at the wonton lunacy of it all and was about to remark as much when in that instant, the hard driving licks of AC/DC's "Rock and Roll Ain't Noise Pollution" sounded in the car signaling Dean's cell phone was ringing. Both brothers looked at each other for a worried moment until Dean shook his head ruefully, a shadow of worry washing over his features. The accusing glare Sam received from his brother growled: You just jinxed us, didn't you? Shaking his head, Dean grabbed his phone.

"Little arms like that, T-Rex probably can't dial and hold the phone to his ear himself, right?" Dean grimaced before he answered. Sam rolled his eyes as Dean flipped open his cell and answered the call. "Yeah?"

"Dean?" the crisped and clipped voice sounded strained yet familiar.

"Carl?" Dean asked recognizing the voice of the man who had summoned them from their Vermont excursion.

Carl Whitney was a cop, something the Winchesters avoided normally out of professional need and courtesy. Whitney, however, was a rarity in their experience. He was a cop who understood the need to put the law in the trunk of your car and fight fire with… well, salt and more fire, a little iron and some holy water when necessary. The man wasn't a hunter, but he had helped the elder Winchester brother on a case many years earlier and never forgot the lessons learned or the favors owed. He said as much to Dean as he apologized for needing is help.

"I was worried you maybe didn't get my message," Carl replied. "You're a hard man to track down, Dean."

"Well, it's best if I keep it that way, you know," Dean replied. "My brother and I are heading your way now. We're just passing Buzzard Bay… the things you New Englander's choose for names…"

"So you're close," Carl said sounding relieved. "Thank god."

"Frankly, I wouldn't bother, but to each his own," Dean scowled for a moment. "We figured we'd blow into town, do a little recon and catch up with you after that. Your message didn't have a lot of detail, but we did a little research. This is about the death at that inn, right?"

"You got it," the man heaved a sigh of relief. "Man, what a mess."

"Well, our ETA will be about 7 tonight if we catch the last ferry," Dean explained. "Any tips on where we can crash without drawing any attention?"

"It's the off-season still so anyone visiting sort of stands out, if only because the merchants are looking for customers so they're trolling for new faces," Carl said. "Never mind the ferry; I'll get you out here on private transport."

"No planes or helicopters," Dean said quickly.

"It's a boat, Dean, take a chill," Carl laughed. "I'm a police chief on an island of millionaires, not a millionaire myself. Just leave your car on the main land. The parking lot at Woods Hole is safe; my cousin oversees it. I'll have him take special care of your car—you still driving that black Impala?"

"Damn right," Dean smiled and lovingly caressed the dashboard. Sam watched the motion and rolled his eyes.

"Seriously, one day you two should just get a room," Sam muttered and watched the small town landscape slide by. Dean sneered and gave him the finger as he continued to listen to the call.

"I'll heading out in my boat now," Carl said. "That way avoid the security at the ferry docks. I don't want to have to erase anymore security footage than I have to."

"All right," Dean said. "You'll give us the full details when we see you?"

"As much as I know," Carl said. "Which isn't much. We got a vicious murder without any real suspects and no way for the bad guy to have gotten in or left the scene. The whole thing feels off to me."

"Off is our specialty," Dean promised. "We'll see if we can sort it out. See you in a few."

He then disconnected and gazed pensively at Sam.

"So do you think my T-Rex could swim to Martha's Vineyard?" he asked in a serious tone.

oOoOoOo

After getting the Impala a prime space that could be watched by the lot manager, who conveniently lived above the office for the parking business, the Winchesters set about unpacking the items they would need from the trunk.

Night was falling fast and the sharp breeze off the Atlantic inlet was whistling around them. Despite the chilly temperature, Sam inhaled the sea air and felt it soak into him like a powerful medicine. It gave him opposing feelings that felt miraculous: It excited him and made him feel sleepy. Sea air always did that to him. There was something powerful and yet relaxing about spending time near the ocean. While most people preferred the sultry climate of the tropics, Sam actually preferred the sharper temperatures of more northern spots. And, while Dean would deny it for the lack of visible bikini's and thongs on the women year-round, Sam knew his brother actually preferred the slower and more naturally wild coast of New England to that of Florida. The upper reaches of Maine were actually Dean's preferred locale on this side of the country, but this trek was bringing them instead to Martha's Vineyard. And while this case was one he pushed for them to follow, from his sudden quiet and more tense posture, it was evident this was not his preferred element.

Sensing the shift in his mood, Sam began trying to fill in the many gaps that still existed for why they were here and who they would be assisting.

"So you and Carl worked together before?" Sam asked as they exited the car and began hauling their duffles out of the trunk.

They were extra heavy as there was a larger compliment of weapons and supplies in them. Neither liked the idea of leaving the car and it's ample provisions behind as they prepared to walk toward the small, white clapboard station. Sam once remarked on the Impala's trunk's value, referring to it s as a Mary Poppins bag of supernatural survival gear. Dean's terse 30 minute diatribe about Sam's disturbing fondness for musicals and questions about his sexuality or possible actual gender followed. His point, though, was proven in this instance. The trunk had everything they needed, but the car could not go with them. The island wasn't precisely small, but the car would surely stand out so a low profile while driving it would be impossible. Also, if they needed to make a quick getaway, there was no way Dean would leave his baby behind.

"Yeah," Dean answered plainly. "Carl Whitney."

Sam watched as his brother caressed the trunk just after closing it. He seemed to mutter a few words, possibly an apology or a promise, to the vehicle. Sam said nothing. He learned long ago not to be mock Dean's car too much and not to be jealous of the car. Dean loved both the car and his brother (and Sam was reasonably certain on most days that Dean loved his little brother slightly more than the Chevy).

"If you've finished your goodbye to your mistress, I think I see you friend," Sam said, gesturing to a tall, bulky man approaching them wearing heavy Wellington boots and a bright slicker-style jacket. The man raised a beefy hand and waved.

"Yeah, that's him," Dean waved in return. "Put on a few pounds since the last time I saw him."

"Well, you've died a few times since then so people do change," Sam quipped, expecting a chiding laugh but receiving none. Dean only cut his eyes at him briefly then returned his gaze to the ground.

Sam chewed his lip, wondering why there was this sudden chill between them. Dean had grown quiet the closer they drew to the ferry landing at Woods Hole and virtually stopped talking as soon as they parked.

"You okay?" Sam asked.

"Fine," Dean said but it sounded like he was trying to convince himself as much as he was his brother.

Sam stared at him with concern. Dean was now wearing no readable expression on his face. This could be taken in several ways: He was still feeling the effects of the mild concussion he received in Vermont several days earlier; he was pissed at Sam for his flip remark about dying so often; or there was something he was holding back about either this case or his 'friend.' Sam's money was on the last one, but did not want to start rocking the boat—especially since they were going to be clambering into an actual boat in several minutes to get a ride to the island.

"So you know him from when you were hunting on your own while I was at school?" Sam asked carefully.

The brothers never discussed those days. For the first year or two after leaving Stanford, the topic raised Sam's hackles and made Dean moody and defensive. Since then, a Hoover Dam sized load of other crap had flowed under, around and over their bridge so the younger Winchester doubted it was a taboo subject any longer.

"Yeah," Dean said, falling into his predictable minimalist approach to historical details.

"And he's a cop?" Sam prodded as they trudged forward.

Dean nodded once. Sam paused, hoping for but realizing there was no more elaborate answer in the offing.

"He knows who and what you really are?" Sam dug deeper. "He doesn't think you're FBI or something?"

"He knows the truth," Dean said firmly. "Real name. Real job. He knows all about us, Sam."

"Us?" Sam questioned.

"Hunters," Dean growled then picked up his pace, leaving his little brother behind as he approached and greeted the law enforcement officer like he was a long, lost college frat buddy.

Carl Whitney was approaching his 50 if the lines on his face were any indication. His voice as deep and resonating. He was easily 30 pounds overweight but his height helped him hold it well. He was an inch taller than Dean and two shorter than Sam. His face was ruddy and told the tale of many sunburns and lots of cold harsh winters. His eyes were a fading brown, like his receding hair.

"Man, you are a sight for sore eyes," Whitney said wearily as he reached forward and warmly pumped Dean's hand, clapping him soundly on the shoulder. "You look good, kid. Damn good!"

"I'm flattered, but I don't swing that way," Dean shrugged. "Been hitting the jelly donuts, I see."

Carl loosed a loud, barking laugh for a moment then his expression changed. It was suddenly full of a deep and sincere concern as he gazed back.

"I don't have to chase the bad guys anymore," Carl said. "I take complaints about parking tickets and noise levels. Basically, I am retired while on duty. Nice work if you can get it."

"I can only imagine," Dean scoffed and shook his head.

"I know, kid," Carl said solemnly as he nodded briefly, acknowledging Sam's approach. "Glad you're still with us. I was worried, you know, after… everything a year or two ago."

"Everything?" Sam wondered, entering the discussion.

"Carl," Dean said turning to his brother, "this is Sam, my little brother."

"Little?" he smirked. "You still have a gift for understatement, Dean. Wait, so you mean to tell me that you have a brother? All that time we worked together and I never heard you never mention him."

Sam shot him a cold look and watched as Dean shook his head and winced. Dean waved his hand, pushing through the conversation.

"You said after everything?" Sam inquired. "What's 'everything'?"

Sam decided, with a very conscious effort, to look for details about Dean's past in another way rather than delve into why his brother didn't want someone in his past to know he had a younger brother. Sam figured it had a lot to do with the fact Sam turned his back on his family when he went to Stanford. He now knew, after so many years of getting to know his brother as an adult, how much Sam leaving his brother hurt the elder Winchester. Dean's discomfort at Carl's words was obvious, but Sam pushed that aside. Rather than tread upon that apparent sore spot, Sam opted to seek information about the case that brought the two men together while Sam was pursuing his academic career.

"I meant those things, those… whatever they were posing as you that went on that killing spree," Carl said.

"Those things?" Sam repeated. "Leviathan?"

"Yeah, but don't say that word around me," Carl shuddered visibly. "Give me the fucking willies just thinking about them. Oh, in case you needed to know…"

He pulled a sports bottle out of his long, jacket pocket and dumped it over his hands then did the same quickly (and without warning) to both brothers. They blinked in surprise but said nothing.

"Borax," Carl nodded and wiped his hands on his pants. "Figured I should check and so should you."

"Better than a secret handshake," Dean said, brushing his hands on his coat. "Where's your boat? Tell me it's not some friggin' dingy that we have to row."

As it turned out, it was not a dingy. It was a modest 12-foot whaler with an actual engine. It sped them across the sound from the mainland out to the island six miles away. The sea was choppy and steel gray, throwing a fine mist over them with each thump of the uneven surface. Sam gripped the side of the boat tight and kept his eyes glued to the life jackets resting unused on the side of the vessel. He felt pale and worried about launching his late lunch into the Atlantic. He was only partially relieved when he noted the green tinge to his brother's coloring (just a shade lighter than his eyes) as Dean stood, grasping the edge of the wind screen for dear life with his eyes locked like a laser on the land in front of them.

They arrived at a marina in Oak Bluffs and lugged their gear on rubbery knees to Carl's waiting pickup truck. The feeble heat from the vehicle did nothing to vanquish their chill and jitters as they headed out of the main part of town toward the more sparsely developed area in the 25 mile stretch of land. They eventually arrived at a small, weather-worn but durable cottage covered in graying cedar shingles with a stand of cedars surrounding it, giving it cover from the wind and prying eyes.

They hauled their bags inside and were pointed to the back deck by Carl. Sam was hoping to remain inside for some warmth from the evening chill, but shuffled after his brother to be a good guest. His worries of freezing, he realized quickly, were unfounded. Using nearly as much lighter fluid as Dean would to toast a set of troublesome bones, Carl ignited a large, stone fire pit embedded in the center of his back deck that threw a welcoming wall of heat at them. Sam dropped into a nearby Adirondack chair and felt the warm worm its way into his damp jeans and onto his clammy skin soothing it. From the relaxed expression of Dean, who sat on the other side of the blaze with his head tipped back in a euphoric expression probably only his lady companions ever got a chance to see, he too was enjoying these accommodations.

"Carl, just so you know, if this fire never goes out we may never leave," Dean offered, his eyes still closed as the warmth rolled over him.

Sam smirked and shook his head. Dean did not get attached to locations—a hazard of never living anywhere long enough to do so. Yes, he had a comfort zone at Bobby's at one time, but that was gone along with the man who called the Salvage Yard home. Sam knew his brother was growing very fond of their bunker in Kansas, but Dean was cautious and still did not call it home. Actually, home was not a word Dean used except when referring (always grudgingly) to the house in Lawrence, Kansas . Home, in the classical sense, did not exist for the Winchesters. That Dean was showing signs of being relaxed while they were on a job was just more proof, as far as Sam was concerned, that things were going well for them. He hoped, in part for his own sake and sanity, that this was a sign maybe this time their attempt to save the world would actually work out.

"Let me sweeten the pot," Carl said, handing both long neck bottles of some micro brew Sam did not recognize but accepted gratefully. "I ordered pizza before I left. Delivery kid should be here any minute with it."

"Carl, will you marry Sam?" Dean asked and chuckled.

Sam sighed and shook his head, not rising to the bait, and focusing instead getting to know their host as it seemed Dean was going to turn mute again.

"So Carl," Sam began. "You know about the Leviathan?"

Dean remained still, head tipped back, eyes closed. If Sam did not know his brother's sleeping expressions better, he would have sworn Dean had slipped into dream land. However, the lack of twitching and terror strained expressions validated he was simply resting in the chair, communing with the welcoming caresses from the fire.

"Yeah," Carl nodded and looked darkly toward blaze. "Saw what those vicious fuckers could do. Knew I had to help you guys—after crazy old Frank said it wasn't you doing all that shooting and whatnot. Of course, he also said there was a chance that the you he knew wasn't you either. Fucked up world we live in."

He pulled deeply on his bottle. In solidarity, Dean raised his bottle slightly and tilted it toward the man. His eyes remained closed, leaving Sam to his research. That Dean did not seem surprised at the man's knowledge angered Sam. He reminded himself they were allegedly in a good patch and did his best to tamp out the budding embers of frustration with his brother.

"Frank?" Sam repeated. "Frank who?"

"Frank Devereaux," Dean replied, surprising Sam by uttering a word, though he was still inspecting the insides of his eyelids. "Carl here helped a bit with the whole taking us off the grid deal."

"He did?" Sam gaped at his brother then turned to Carl. "You did? Why? I mean how? And why am I just hearing about it now?"

"There was a lot going on at the time," Dean shrugged. "I guess I forgot to mention it. Wasn't my best year, Sammy, remember? Besides, it wasn't important how it got done as long as it did."

"Yeah, I think that makes us even for New Orleans, by the way, Dean," Carl nodded. "I'm a cop and could have ended up in some serious shit when you told Frank to have someone helped with the boots on the ground approach to making your records disappear. Thank you for giving him my name on that."

"All's fair in annihilation and war," Dean shrugged. Carl scowled then smirked and nodded.

"You're lucky I like you," Carl chuckled and shook his head.

"You're lucky I'm a good shot," Dean murmured.

"Amen," the police chief sighed and nodded as he tossed a gratitude filled look at Dean, who remained oblivious to it as he continued to inspect the insides of his eyelids quietly. The two men fell silent, leaving only the crackle of the fire to fill the air.

"So you worked with Frank," Sam prompted.

The blaze spat small sparks at them that died before reaching their legs. The skies were slowly clearing to reveal a pock-marked heaven of feeble stars. The wind picked up a bit, but the blaze kept them plenty war. Carl stoked the fire with a long, iron rod then sighed.

"Yeah, met him a few years ago when I was tracking a fugitive through Indiana," Carl replied then winced as he hung his head.

Dean suddenly laughed, his loud, barking guffaw and began to rattle off sentences that took Sam a minute to place.

"Alright, listen up, people," Dean said, grinning manically as he recited, still with his eyes closed. "Our fugitive has been on the run for 90 minutes. Average foot speed over uneven ground barring injuries is 4 miles-per-hour. That gives us a radius of six miles. What I want from each and every one of you is a hard-target search of every gas station, residence, warehouse, farmhouse, hen house, outhouse and doghouse in that area." He paused and finally pried open his eyes to look up at his two companions. "I love that guy."

"I hate when you do that," Carl scowled, flinging his bottle cap at Dean, who barely moved his head out of the way to avoid being struck by the projectile. "Scariest moment of my life, seeing a goddamn zombie crawl out of a grave, and I'm nearly shitting my pants all the while numb nuts here," he said jerking his thumb toward Dean, 'is sitting beside me quoting Tommy Lee Jones from 'The Fugitive' the whole time. I nearly shot you that day, Dean. Hell, I probably should have. Jackass."

Dean shrugged and grinned. It was not an apology or a acquiescence of understanding. Sam looked at Carl with continuing confusion over his history and turned his eyes away from Dean, who was at least keeping his eyes open now as if he wanted to participate in the discussion.

"I used to be a U.S. Marshal," Carl explained. "That's how I met your brother. I was sent to New Orleans for work and…well, we worked on some shit. Anyway, back to Frank. So, years later, I was looking for this fugitive in the mid-west and a contact of a contact, sort of thing, led me to Frank for assistance. He helped me dig up the guy's new ID and do a bunch of crap I knew our tech weenies can't do because of laws and red tape. I just needed to find the guy and bring him in. Didn't matter how I got the info, as long as I got it. Frank came through. Bat shit crazy as he was, he could find anything that ever came near a computer."

Dean nodded solemnly and took a slow pull on his beer. A faraway look appeared in his eyes that Sam recognized. Devereaux's death was just one of many that he knew his brother carried with him. It didn't matter how much Sam told Dean that it was the Leviathans who killed their crazed co-conspirator in putting down the evil chompers, the weight of the man's death was another load of guilt Dean chose shoulder.

"Frank helped you?" Sam questioned. "You're the law. Frank didn't trust the law."

"You're right, he didn't," Carl nodded. "But he needed contacts, too. So our mutual belief that the other was crazy and getting ready to screw him over was a bonding experience, you might say. Anyway, when he was doing did a little clean up for you both, he asked for my help in getting hands on some physical evidence after he burned the electronic records. Well, once I heard the name Dean Winchester, I figured it was fate telling me to pay a debt so…"

"You helped with that?" Sam asked, his tone less aggressive.

"Hey, your brother saved my ass and let me know I wasn't going crazy," Carl said passionately. "A little strategic B&E and destruction of public property for the good guys was the least I could do. Once I was done with that, I hung up my spurs as a Fed and came back here to my hometown to take up the job of Police Chief until I retire."

Dean nodded his thanks to the man for his extracurricular efforts.

"You're the one who destroyed our paper arrest records while Frank burned the electronic ones and all that evidence like the video and our prints and photos," Sam surmised. "Wow. Okay, I am indebted to you, too. Thank you."

"Did more than that," Carl winked. "Wiped out evidence that either of you were ever born. The security on the hall of records in Lawrence, Kansas is a joke by the way. Mid-westerners may like their firearms, but they don't know shit about protection."

"You destroyed our birth certificates?" Sam asked, unsure why he was so disappointed and shocked.

It was not like he could ever use it or his real identity in any official capacity again. Still, Sam held a spark of hope in his chest that maybe, just maybe, if he passed all three trials, he might be able to have that normal life he dreamed about for so long. Not that the destruction of his birth record was a serious impediment to that. He was more than capable of creating an identity through fraud documents. It just felt odd knowing that, as far as official records were concerned, he did not exist and never had.

"Everything on paper for an official civil record containing your names is no longer," Carl nodded.

Dean, as if sensing his brother's pondering and distress, found his voice and rejoined the discussion.

"So give us the basics on this case of yours?" Dean asked pointedly changing the subject.

"Creep show is more like it," Carl shook his head and shuddered. "House was locked down tight from the inside and the guy people suspect was seen roughly around the time of the murder on the other side of town on a security camera. I'm thinking it's a ghost."

Sam and Dean exchanged looks. The man spoke calmly. Even for someone who wasn't completely unaware that the supernatural was real, it seemed odd that he would throw out the possibility of a spirit so casually. Carl caught their looks and shrugged.

"Look, I've been… researching things since Dean and I worked together," he admitted. "I just wanted to know what else might be out there in the dark, you know? Usually, there's nothing here on the Vineyard other than what it exactly seems, but this… I knew pretty quick this was not normal. I didn't know what to do so I tracked you down, Dean. Look, I don't want to run in the only suspect just because it's easy, and I sure don't want to let whatever killed that woman just… be left alone. Dean, you showed me things that opened my eyes. It's like you said: You can't un-see what you've seen. Well, I ain't seen whatever this is yet myself, but this is… something—your kind of something."

"You got the file?" Dean asked Carl quickly. All humor and warmth from his movie quotes gone from his voice. "We've got work to do."

The chilling and sudden shift into hunter mode even startled Sam.

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