Chapter 1 – Yet Another Day in the Life of the Winchesters
"I pulled you out of hell.
I can throw you back in."
Dean woke with a start, sweat beading his forehead and panting like a dog. He rubbed a hand across his face and let out a sharp breath. These nightmares were starting to really get on Dean's last nerve. First it was flashbacks of the burning visions in hell, and now it was those same words over and over. Each time Castiel was standing beside Dean with that same expressionless look and dead eyes, repeating those words with a monotone. They became etched in Dean's mind and sooner or later it was a mantra that Dean said before he went to bed every night. This is probably what prompted the nightmares.
A rustling came from the motel room's bathroom. Sam must be in the shower, Dean thought. He rolled out of bed and ran his fingers through his short, cropped hair. Sam better be done with that shower soon, because I sure need one. After a quick knock on the bathroom door and a muffled shout, it was clear that Sam would be a while. Dean rolled his eyes and muttered a few profanities at his younger brother. Nights like the last always made Dean a little grouchy in the mornings. He was almost a little sorry that Sam had to deal with him in this sort of mood.
"Sammy, let's get moving!" Dean shouted through the cracks of the door again.
"Alright, Dean, give me one goddamned minute!" Sam responded.
Dean rolled his eyes and threw a towel over his shoulder as Sam emerged from the misty bathroom with a toothbrush scrubbing his teeth. Sam raised his eyebrows and gestured Dean towards the foggy room behind him. Dean pushed by Sam, clashing shoulders, and stumbled into the bath. A stubbed toe and his touchy behavior nearly had Dean at Sam's throat, but he remembered that it would only lead to a stupid testosterone-based yelling fit that would exhaust them both.
There was no time for that today, and both Sam and Dean knew that. They had a case in town that Castiel had sent them after. It had something to do with a Shapeshifter or a Changeling. They weren't sure which it was yet. It had promise to be a vengeful spirit as well, which made everything so damn confusing and complicated. Dean mulled over the details of the hunt as the warm water cascaded over the knotted muscles in his back. He could really go for a masseuse right now, and a sexy one at that.
"Dean," Sam called out, "Now it's your turn to get moving! I called Bobby, and he's got a lead on whatever killed that professor two towns over."
"Alright, I'll be out in three!" Dean replied, turning off the tap and stepping out of the small tub.
After almost slipping on the wet tile, Dean wrapped a towel around his waist and began his routine shave. He could tell Sam was getting impatient after three minutes turned into ten, which then proceeded to become fifteen. Dean chuckled as he slapped on some aftershave and slid his tongue across his freshly brushed teeth. Minty fresh, he remarked, smiling at his reflection. He threw on his t-shirt and nearly forgot his necklace. There was a sharp pang in his chest, how could he ever forget it? Dean looked at the pendant solemnly for a moment as he rolled it between his fingers. Sighing, he looped it around his neck and finally stepped out of the bathroom. Sam looked at him exasperatedly and Dean shrugged.
"Let's get huntin'," he chirped with a smirk. He grabbed his jacket and keys on the way out the door with Sam in suit.
"Detectives Juarez and Jansen," Dean said with a flip of a fake ID, which went straight to his jacket pocket after the client got less than a second to examine it. Sam nodded after he did the same, tucking his own ID reading "Marcus Jansen" into his pants pocket. A nervous, bleary-eyed woman stood leaning against the doorjamb with an unimpressed expression. She cocked her eyebrows and smacked her lips loudly with a wave of her hand. Dean and Sam took that as an invitation to enter her home.
"Welcome, officers," she muttered, "Sorry, I guess. Place's been a mess since…"
Her voice cracked, stopping her from finishing her insincere apology. Dean eyed Sam, giving him the "okay" to begin the interrogation. They weren't here to mess about with this drunken, mourning widow. They were here for clues to why her late husband had "committed suicide" by ripping a hole in his chest and throwing himself off the second floor balcony. The Winchesters most definitely did not think it was suicide based off their late night EMF readings two evenings before. Hopefully actually talking to the woman would give them some insight.
"Mrs. Eastman-"
"Ms. Eastman," she interrupted with a quiet cough, "but you can call me Irene, please."
"Right," Sam added softly, "Irene, we'd just like to say that we are very sorry for your loss, but we would like to ask you a few questions about your husbands…passing."
Irene nodded sadly and offered them a seat in her living room. The two brothers, in this case partners, obliged and Dean was almost too comfortable. He nearly plopped both feet on the coffee table, but Sam gave him a harsh nudge in the side before Dean ruined the whole thing. Dean grunted in opposition, but kept his etiquette and smiled empathetically at Irene. She gave them a curious look before sitting down herself.
"I've already, um, the police came by the other day to ask questions. Why are you here?" Irene questioned.
Dean grinned and cleared his throat before answering. Boy do we get this question a lot, he pondered. How many more times will it be? He leaned forward, explaining the usual business of how they were coming round a second time to make sure that every inch of the case was examined and all evidence was secure. As detectives, there were different fields covered than what day-to-day officers had to ask. Basically, they had a different set of questions that required more in-depth answers.
"So, Ms. Eastman, or Irene, was there anything unusual about your husband before his death? Any strange dreams, behaviors, dieting…?" Dean rambled off several options, all to which Irene shook her head.
"No, Jon was completely normal, or so it seemed. He woke up with a smile for work at the college down the street and came home with a smile for dinner. He was a happy man, he-" Irene's small smile wavered. "Wait, there was this one thing…"
Same and Dean leaned forward to rest their forearms on their knees. This was when the job got good. This was the part where the possibility of a hunt turned into the beginning of the hunt.
"He kept getting these strange voice messages. He shrugged them off, saying they were from some scam, but soon they became more frequent and…almost urgent-like. I heard one, the last one he got before…and it said," Irene paused, "Actually, here. Listen for yourselves."
All of a sudden, she stood up and rummaged in the purse that was sat on the kitchen table. Dean sat up straight and held his hand out to grasp the small flip phone that Irene handed him. He flipped it open and placed it between his and Sam's ears to listen to the voice message. It was mainly static and white-noise, but a faint voice was clear through it all.
"Come to me, Jon. You will be mine."
Dean gulped down the nerves that were building in his chest, and he clapped the phone shut. Giving Sam a quick glance, Dean stood and handed the phone back to Irene. Sam stood as well, holding his hand out to shake Irene's. She had that curious, yet peculiar look on her face once again as the "detectives" said their goodbyes.
"Thank you, Ms. Eastman. We'll keep in touch," Sam mumbled politely.
Irene nodded and escorted them to the front door. She watched as they climbed into their car and wave to her from the front seats. Her eyes glistened as she closed the door behind her, not noticing the Impala drive away swiftly in the opposition direction of the police department.
