"Son of a bitch." Dean glared down at the hateful black-and-white photo like it would burn him. It had been taken from a distance, zoomed in long and blurry and then blown up much larger than recommended. He didn't recognize the street or any of the surroundings. It was just a simple long-shot taken from a window at least a block away with one of those ridiculously long zoom lenses.
Just a guy standing outside a bar named Jimmie's on a cold night, illuminated by the neon signs that probably blinked intermittently, offering cold beer and hot ladies. The photographer had snapped the pic as the lights blinked on, lighting up all the strong angles of his subject's face. The guy stood holding the door open as a woman walked through. She was tall and cut a good profile from the rear, and the guy was frowning - frowning and breathing heavily like maybe he'd just been running. There was a cloud where his breath had left his body and instantly condensed in the cold, night air, and he stood hunched forward, free hand in the pocket of his tattered jacket. At the last minute, he had looked up, right at the person holding the camera, some sixth sense possibly alerting him to danger, though there was no way he could have seen it.
It had been a year, three months and 17 days, but Dean would still recognize that face on the darkest night with just a pencil light to guide him - even blurry and grainy and too far away.
Sam.
The guy in the awful photo was Sam.
This was his target. The next creature he was supposed to hunt, and his hand shook as he placed the 8 X 10 back on the greasy table. He sat back, realizing he was holding his breath and let it out in an angry snort. He glared at the man across the way.
"It's a man." He said, biding time, weighing his options. He pulled his hands into his lap before the tremble could give him away.
The man shook his head, long gray hair moving gracefully at the motion. "It's not a man. It's a thing." Dean's companion disagreed. He tapped out a cigarette and lit it in a smooth, practiced motion. "It drinks demon blood. It mates with a demon. This girl here …" He dropped a second photo on the table.
Ruby.
Dean cursed inwardly. That black-haired bitch was still in the picture then.
"... 'cept it's not a girl. She's a demon, sure as I'm alive." the old man nudged Sam's photo with a gnarled finger, "This one, he WAS human. Had a family. Had a father and a brother. Had a college transcript. Had a fuckin' LIFE." the old man shook his head in sorrow. "Threw it all away." He flicked ashes onto Ruby's cleavage. "For that … creature."
Dean could usually read people, but he was unsure about this old man. "Why you coming to me with this?" He asked, risking a sip of cold, thick coffee.
The man sighed, sat back and looked Dean straight in the eye. "He killed someone I cared about. Except he didn't JUST kill 'em. He … drank 'em too. You're the best in the business." He glanced away, swallowing hard. "I asked everywhere. Everywhere. Got the same answer. Got you."
Dean stared, measuring. "You got his name?"
"Sam Winchester."
Dean took another sip. "Who'd he kill?"
"My … granddaughter." He suddenly leaned forward, slapping a hand down on each photo. "These two together, they kidnapped her, put her in the trunk of a car and drove her … then they … there were gallon jugs … her blood. They … he … they said he … he drank her blood."
Dean suddenly felt sick. He stood up, taking the photo of Sam with him. "Who'd you ask?"
The old man suddenly looked afraid, like if Dean left, he'd never have his chance for revenge. "There's a roadhouse. Burned down a while back, but they rebuilt it. I asked there. A girl, she looked at my picture." He nodded toward the blow-up in Dean's hand. "She told me to get in touch with Dean Singer. Gave me your number."
Dean frowned. "What girl?"
The guy stood, visibly agitated. "A girl! Some girl with a boy's name. Long blond hair. Attitude a mile high. Early 20's. She took one look and told me I had to come find you. You're the only one who can help me." the guy grabbed Dean's elbow. "Was she right? Are you the only one? Cause it sure looks like you're leavin'."
Dean stared at the old man, but he didn't shake him off. The guy was telling the truth. And he made sense. If Jo had seen the picture of Sam and realized someone was hunting him, she'd guess that Dean would want to know, that Sam would need his help.
Sam would need his help.
Sam, who had killed this distraught man's granddaughter and drank her blood while he was hopped up on demon acid. Sam, who had left Dean broken and bleeding on the floor of a hotel room to go off with his demon lover and begin the apocalypse. Sam, who had wandered so far off the reservation that there was no bringing him back now. Not alive anyway.
"Take care of this, Dean. Or we will." Cas had promised a lifetime ago.
Dean looked down at the photo in his hand. He looked down at his brother. Sam had lost weight since Dean had last seen him. He looked positively gaunt in this picture, and something else too. It took Dean a minute to put a finger on it.
Lost. He looked lost.
Dean stared back at the old man. "Got an idea of where this Jimmie's is?"