Author's Note:

Just cos of the whole 'Why doesn't Castiel wear Brooks Brothers' shoes?' e-mail debacle. Don't ask.

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ONE:

The Part With The Boys In Suits

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The lights were too dim, causing a shocking contrast that made it hard to see the bright screen properly. The noise from the jukebox could only be termed 'music' if someone had had time to re-write the dictionary using only euphemisms, and the knowledge that he was probably being cased for his laptop right now did nothing for his sense of comfort.

Sam let his eyes shift around the crowded bar-room in annoyance. He frowned at the sight of people dancing, drinking, chatting and propositioning. He looked back at his laptop, his eyes searching the RSS feed out of sheer desire to be intrigued.

Something slapped at his shoulder and Sam started. He realised his concentration had run off, unnoticed, and been happily gambolling in the flower beds all by itself. He called it back in quickly and turned to see the owner of the hand. But they patted at his shoulder and walked round him, sitting opposite on the rickety wooden stool and picking up the pint glass of beer.

"Anything blowing up your skirt?" Dean called over the noise.

"Not a damn thing," Sam admitted. "Do we have to be somewhere so loud?"

"Whut?" Dean teased, putting a hand behind his ear and leaning forward slightly.

Sam scowled at him and then went back to the internet. He noticed Dean's hand go out for the shot glass next to the laptop and pouted as his brother upended it with satisfaction.

"So I take it I'm driving tonight?" he called.

"If you don't want to, just say," Dean shrugged, apparently past caring.

"Right," Sam grunted to himself. "Don't let me get in the way there, Captain Chug-a-lot."

"C'mon, Sammy, it's a bar," Dean pointed out, his hands going out and up in appeal. "You want one?"

"I'll pass," Sam admitted. His eyes caught something on the webpage in front of him and he sat up a little straighter in his chair. "Possible vengeful spirit?"

"Shoot," Dean nodded, reaching for another shot glass.

"Two deaths right here in sunny Springfield, Missouri. One was supposed to be a suicide, but then a copy-cat happened forty-eight hours later and police changed their story."

"What are they saying now?" Dean asked, washing the shot down with a mouthful of beer.

"Ah… Hang on…" Sam instructed, tapping at something on the keyboard.

Dean nodded, letting his gaze swing round the room. He noticed the blond head at the table for two, just ten feet away. He was just admiring the way the light shimmered off the waves in the bouncy hair as the head came up.

Her eyes locked straight on his. Dean smiled politely, noticing the tall, wide man sat with his hand on hers on the table. She kept staring at him and Dean blinked at her, uncertain.

"Right, says here… Hah," Sam huffed, his head tilting in accusation. "This looks good."

"Whut does?" Dean asked smartly, looking back at his brother deliberately.

"According to news reports, one man, Mr Ray Spiegal, was found hanged in his apartment. Police thought it was suicide, but could find no way he managed to get up in the noose."

"Did they check for a wet patch on the floor?" Dean shrugged, reaching for the third shot glass on the table.

"Like, did he stand on ice?"

"Well I wasn't asking if he pee'd himself, Sammy," he said, lifting the shot glass and taking the whisky down in one go.

"Yeah, they checked for all kindsa stuff. Case was closed cos they couldn't find a way to explain how he did it. Obviously hanged, though."

"Right." Dean put an elbow on the table, letting his chin fall into his fist. "That it, Columbo?"

"The next one, the copy-cat death, was Mr Daniel Becker, two mornings later - same MO, down to the last detail. Including stuff police didn't make public," Sam stated clearly.

"Uh-huh," Dean nodded, his eyes ranging round the room. He felt a strange urge to look to his right slightly and again encountered the eyes of the blond at the table. She was staring at him, her eyes fairly bulging with the energy she was expending. Dean let his face screw up in confusion, remembered the number of shots he'd had, and chalked it up to drunken paranoia.

"Oh look at this - this could be a starting lead," Sam breathed suddenly.

The noise pounding in his ears, the knowledge that he was being watched by an apparently freaked-out girl, the feel of the crystallising affects of the alcohol all served to make it clear to Dean that he could be losing his grip on the evening. "Whut?" he dared.

"Well, there's a gossip site here, they claim to have juicy information on both incidents," he said, and Dean recognised a certain amount of eagerness in his tone.

"And?"

"And… both times, there was blood near the body, and not the victims'. It appears to have been used to scrawl two letters."

"Two letters? Don't tell me: P.S.," Dean shrugged.

"No." Sam noticed Dean's slightly off-kilter gaze start to wander over his face. "Are you listening?"

"Oh yeah," Dean gushed with an attempt to look interested. "I got chills an' everything. C'mon, what?"

"J.W."

"J.W.? As in… J.W.?" Dean asked, oblivious.

"Yeah. This news report says the local police have identified one suspect, his immediate whereabouts unknown."

"Don't say it's Johnny Weissmuller - I always thought he was the best Tarzan," Dean grinned.

Sam's face, though annoyed, took on a slight plaintive look that Dean caught all too easily. It was a fearful kind of sympathy, a blatantly anguished form of compassion.

"You don't think it's a… well, it is kind of a coincidence…"

"Whut?" Dean managed, lost. Sam huffed in annoyance.

"John Winchester," he said quietly.

Dean stared at him - just stared. "Yeah right - what is he, back by special arrangement? And you really think Dad would be ganking people?" he protested.

Sam heard the indignation and affront. He also heard the alcohol steaming his brother up.

"Alright, I know," he said quickly, putting out placating hands. Dean huffed and picked up the fourth shot glass, downing it without it even hitting the sides. "It was stupid, I know." He paused, shaking his head. "So does this case seem - Dean, concentrate," he urged, finding his older brother's gaze ranging past his shoulder suddenly. "What are you looking at all the time?"

Dean snapped his head back to look at his brother. "I'm good, Sammy. Come on, whut? Seem whut?"

"Look, these two letters have been at both crime scenes, and not in the victim's blood. So my question is, what do the two letters stand for? And whose blood are they written in?"

Dean grabbed the pint glass and found it half full. He eyed it, then looked at Sam. "That's two questions," he sniffed, raising the beer and finishing it without a pause. He set the glass down with a loud chink, lifting his hand and waving it at the bar. "Maybe it's code for 'just waiting'," he sniffed, then paused to push his closed fist against his chest, belching very loudly in a way that made Sam eye the ceiling in accusation. "Or 'generous wench'."

"Generous begins with a G," Sam sighed.

"I knew that," Dean blinked, and his gaze tugged at its leash. Dean's hold on it was exceptionally weak and it yanked gleefully. It found itself free and immediately took off across the bar, ranging around the patrons. It stopped dead as it found the blond girl looking at Dean. It realised it needed an owner after all and retreated to the safety of Dean's control.

The blond was still looking at the elder Winchester. It slowly trickled through his slight alcoholic cloud that he was staring at a girl who, along with struggling to remove her hand from the grip of a larger man, was also extremely hot.

And in obvious distress.

"So are we staying here one more night and looking this thing up in the morning?" Sam sighed.

"Yeah, Sammy," he said quickly. "Pit-stop. Back in two." He got up abruptly and stalked off.

Sam huffed and sat back in the chair, shaking his head. Then he turned quickly to call to his brother.

He saw Dean snake through the tables to his right. This confused him, as the washrooms were to the left of the bar. He opened his mouth, then just watched as Dean made definite strides past a table. He put a hand out and grasped the hair of the man sitting at said table. Sam blinked in surprise as Dean rammed his hand down suddenly, slamming the man's head into the wooden surface.

He didn't pause, didn't turn. He simply let go of the man's head and reached out across him, taking the girl's arm. She grabbed up her purse, smiled at him desperately and talked at him with abundant gratitude. He waved it off and helped her up from her chair. As she dashed for the exit, Dean simply walked off, veering to his left to the washroom signs.

Sam, his mouth open, looked down at the man. He was pushing himself up from the table on unsteady feet, blinking around for his lost date. Dean was already barrelling through the washroom doors as Sam closed his mouth, shaking his head in disbelief. He turned back to his laptop, slapping the top down and pulling money from his pocket. He waved it over his head and put it on the table as a barmaid wove through the crowd.

"Thanks," he said quickly, telling her to keep any change and picking up his things. He looked over and saw the man getting his bearings. He turned and checked the washroom doors. Dean was just heading out of them again as the man began talking to people nearby.

As one, they turned and pointed at the elder Winchester, currently making his way back to Sam and their table.

Sam hitched the computer under his arm and watched the man carefully. He began to push through people just as Dean got back to the table.

"Where's ma next round?" he complained.

"Dean - your sauced dude is coming to say hello," he said tightly.

Dean turned just in time to see the hulking form of the slightly drunken man stop in front of him.

"You stealing my date?" he accused thickly.

"Stealin'? I'd call it liberating," Dean shot back. "You don't paw 'em, man."

"She ain't your concern. I love her," he blurted.

"Yeah well, if you love 'em, set 'em free," Dean sniffed dismissively, turning away to look at Sam.

The man growled something and put his hand on Dean's right shoulder. Sam hissed and stepped back one in trepidation. Dean turned with more speed than an inebriated Winchester should have had. His right hand swiped the trespassing hand from his shoulder. At the same time his left ploughed into the man's face with the force of a speeding train.

The man went down like new wonder slimming pills at a diet convention.

Dean stood back one, shaking his hand out to relieve the smarting pain he knew he should have been feeling, and would have if he hadn't had more alcohol than blood in his system. He turned to Sam and nodded.

"Come on then," he shrugged. "We got summin to do about summin."

"Yeah," Sam managed, eyeing the insensate man on the floor. People pointed and laughed, bar staff sighed and groaned, and Sam put a hand on Dean's shoulder, pulling him toward the exit with him.

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Sam looked at himself for a long moment in the bathroom mirror. He shook his razor clean and laid it on the counter, running a hand over his chin and sniffing to himself. He avoided his own gaze and picked up his things, walking out of the bathroom and going to his bed.

He cast a look at his brother and was unsurprised to find him still asleep. He sat on the bed, his hands holding his accoutrements in his lap, watching Dean sleep off his alcohol face-down, one arm dangling over the side of the bed.

"Y'know, I shouldn't have the slightest bit of sympathy for you," he said quietly, shaking his head. "But even when you're finding it hard to walk straight, you're still looking out for the ones that need to be saved, right?"

He sighed and got up, finding his duffle. He went for the television remote and turned on the news channel, keeping the volume low.

"And reports of a sighting have now been confirmed. Is it the suspect we believe the FBI to be chasing? We spoke to the county sheriff, here's what he had to say."

Sam turned at the sound of the TV new reporter, casting a lazy eye at the story as he sorted through his duffle for clothes. He watched the sheriff ignore the camera and keep his eyes on the brunette with the microphone.

"Now I can't speculate on something the FBI only knows, but the brief glimpse the passer-by got would seem to indicate we have the right man," the sheriff said, nodding.

"Is there any truth to the rumour that the suspect was believed to be dead, even by the FBI, until just a week ago?"

"You'd have to ask them, lady," the man said quickly, raising his hands. "All I know is, we have a name and a face, and we're gonna find this man before he can strike again."

The woman nodded her thanks to him and the camera focused back on her.

"So please, look at the face in the picture, and call your local police station if you have reason to suspect this man is hiding out somewhere among us. We need your help, people. He's already killed three times, and we need to help the police catch this evil man."

The live feed of the woman was pushed to one side by a large photograph of a man's face.

Sam dropped his shirt and stumbled over to Dean's bed, his eyes glued to the TV set. He reached out and slapped at his brother's bare shoulder.

"Dean! Dean! Wake up!" he shouted fearfully.

"Get offa me," came the mumble, deep within the pillow.

"It's Dad!" Sam shouted at the TV.

"No it ain't Sam, it's you. You think I don't know--"

"No! On the TV! On the news! It's Dad!" he exploded.

Dean's eyes blinked open and he forced himself round and onto his back, leaning up on one elbow to squint at the TV. The face of John Winchester was still large as life, the photograph staring at him like he was late bringing the car back.

"Gaaah!" he jumped in fright. He put his hand up to rub his eyes quickly, calming himself. "That is not what I need to see first thing in the morning." He let his hand drop and again looked at the news report. The woman was talking but he couldn't take it in. "What's she saying, Sammy?"

Sam edged back to his own bed, sitting quickly.

"They think Dad did it. They said three murders. They're after him," he said lamely.

He was surprised to hear Dean laughing, and looked over indignantly.

"Well, good luck," Dean grinned, turning to lie face down again. "Let me know how that turns out."

"Dean, get up," Sam called. "Looks like we're going to be NSA today."

"Awww, seriously?" Dean yawned into his pillow. "I've only been here like twenty minutes."

"It's nine thirty and you've been in that bed since midnight," Sam said snidely. "Now get up. Or do you want the manhunt for John Winchester to go on without you?"

"Hey, I spent enough time man-hunting Dad. Let someone else have a go," he grumped.

Sam let his eyes roll, and a huge huff escaped him. Dean's left eye popped open and swivelled round to look at him. "Whut now?"

"Dean - don't you care they're framing Dad for this?"

"Not really, no," he admitted, staring at him with one eye.

"Really?"

"Really. Cos we know he's dead, God knows where, and probably laughing his ass off at all this," he stated clearly.

"What about the fact that it's Dad?" Sam shot back. "Don't you care that hundreds of people in this backward spit of town think he's a murderer? That they're saying his name like it's a dirty word, now? Doesn't it make you angry?"

Dean's eye blinked and retreated to the safety of the pillow quickly.

"It does make you angry," Sam concluded. "You're just trying to pretend it doesn't."

"I'm trying to get some sleep," Dean groused.

"You've had enough," Sam pointed out, but his tone was gentler this time. "C'mon, man. You drank enough to make it impossible to have nightmares. I know what that feels like. So get your ass out of bed and let's go find the spirit that's really killing people."

Dean studied his pillow. "Don't know what you're talking about," he mumbled, in an attempt to be indignant. But it came out wrong, and Sam heard it.

"Sure, whatever," he agreed readily. "Just get up. You still got your black suit in your duffle?"

"Probably," Dean shrugged, turning his head to look anywhere but Sam's part of the room.

"Good. Get in the shower."

"I'm going," Dean muttered. He dragged himself up and out of bed, keeping his back to his younger brother as he stumbled round the bed and into the bathroom.

Sam watched the door close and sighed, flumping down on his bed and running a hand through his copious hair.

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He pulled his tie straight as he walked across the short lawn, weaving his way through police officers. He stopped behind the sheriff, checked his partner was behind him, and cleared his throat expectantly. The shorter law enforcement officer turned at the sound and found two men in black suits watching him.

"Can I help you gents?" he asked, looking them up and down.

The taller one with unruly brown hair was closer to him, already pulling out a black fold-over wallet in his right hand, obviously about to flick it. He looked possessed of a burning desire to get to the bottom of something, and the sheriff tried to the stifle the exhausted sigh he felt welling up.

All these young FBI men are the same, he heard himself complain.

His gaze flickered to the other man, slightly shorter and looking a little unsure of himself, as if he were surprised the ground were still under his feet.

"I certainly hope so," the taller man said, lifting his ID wallet. "I'm Agent Riggs, this is Agent McClane, NSA."

"NSA?" the sheriff gasped, rocking back on his heels and putting his thumbs in his belt, nodding. "Well howdy. I've seen FBI in my time, but you two are the first NSA guys I've ever met."

"Well we hope to keep out of your way, sheriff…?"

"Williams," he said, extending a hand. The tall agent shook it firmly, and Sheriff Williams relaxed a little. Nice firm handshake, square shoulders, seems like a stand-up guy. "So, what do you need to see? And why's the NSA down here anyhoo?"

"Oh, just routine, really. Tell the truth, we're kinda new at this and we needed a simple case to get us started, y'know?" Agent Riggs smiled.

The sheriff nodded. He cast a glance at the other agent, currently massaging his forehead and concentrating on his shoes. "Agent - ah, McClane, was it? You ok?" he dared.

The man didn't react and Agent Riggs turned and leaned back, nudging him smartly. McClane lifted his head.

"Surviving," he ground out, pasting on a smile and nodding amiably enough. The sheriff looked at him knowingly.

"You new in town then, huh? Just arrived last night? Them bar-rooms too loud for ya?"

"Something like that," McClane allowed, and cleared his throat. "So we need to see the most recent crime scene. My tirelessly dogged partner here says there was another hanging this morning."

"He's right. Follow me." He waved a hand and turned, leading them across the lawn and up to the house, suspiciously empty of law or forensics officers. "Coroner reckons it happened about six a.m." He paused to push open the door to the small, neatly painted hallway. "Mr Frank Abel, one arrest on police record, but just some drunkenness far enough off his lawn to get him picked up. Coupla friends in town, similarly cautioned folk."

They walked in through a tidy, short hallway, the sheriff pausing to shut the door behind them. He watched the two men veer off in different directions, sliding hands over post or small details, heads down and a voraciously curious look on their faces that almost matched.

"Say, ah… hope you fellas don't mind me asking, but… why is the NSA looking in to this?"

"We think the perpetrator could be linked to bigger things," Agent Riggs said ominously. The sheriff blinked at him and then let his head tilt.

"Bigger things?"

"Bigger - things," the agent repeated, in a dark voice, and the sheriff nodded wisely.

"Oh, I gotcha - all secret-like, is it?"

"I'm glad we understand each other," Agent Riggs confirmed, and Williams beamed.

"Well, anything you need while you're here, just gimme a shout, boys. I'd be pleased to help with - ah - catching people that threaten our way of life, if you get me."

"Loud and clear," Riggs nodded seriously, and the sheriff grinned. He noticed Agent McClane's slightly pale face had begun to sweat. The shorter agent looked at Williams suddenly.

"Bathroom's upstairs?" he asked, in a very controlled voice.

"Yup," he nodded.

"Good. Need to check for - ah - stuff," McClane said quickly, already heading for the foot of the flight of carpeted stairs.

"We'll let you know if we need anything," Agent Riggs said in a friendly voice, and Williams nodded.

"Sure, sure, you boys'll want to give this place a proper run-down without me in the way," he said. "Just call at the station should you need anything."

"We will," he nodded. "Thanks, Sheriff Williams. You're a credit to your department."

Williams tipped two fingers to his forehead and fairly bounced out of the front door, closing it softly behind him.

Agent Riggs let his shoulders sag and put his hand up, pulling his tie open a few inches. He undid the top shirt button and then turned around, looking for doors.

He found one and walked over, turning the handle and looking in.

He saw yellow 'Do Not Cross' tape criss-crossed over the aperture and fished a pen-knife from his pocket, hacking the strips out of his way. He walked into the room to find a white, irregular circle in the middle of the carpet. He walked over and crouched down, studying the ridge just inside the circle, recognising the strange pattern left by liquid damage of an indeterminate dark colour.

He looked up, seeing the noose dangling from a mock-wooden beam that ran right through the middle of the room. He twisted slightly, looking at it carefully, then around the room. A table and a few chairs were by the window, tastefully arranged so any occupants could see out of the large patio windows. He looked back down at the carpet, searching it for indents or impressions or furniture that might have been moved or kicked.

Nothing.

He stood slowly, letting his hands fall into his pockets as he took a deep breath, sighing it out. He looked over at the door and the stairs beyond.

"Dean!" he called.

There was no immediate response and he scowled at the carpet, finding it a suitable replacement for his wayward brother for the moment. He walked around the circle, stopping as the came to the letters in the carpet. He pulled the knife from his pocket and crouched down next to the dried red-black shapes, thinking. He stuck the tip of blade into the darkness, twisting it slightly and lifting up a flaked piece.

"Well, it's blood alright," he murmured. "Question is, whose?"

He heard a clomp-clomp-clomp on the stairs and looked over to the door. Dean appeared round the wooden exit, his hand on the edge as if to keep himself up.

"You look like crap," Sam pointed out flatly.

"Well yippee-ki-yay, Agent Riggs," he allowed. He seemed to have at least made an attempt to splash his face and appear presentable, but something about the wan pallor to his skin and the white knuckles gripping the door told Sam all he needed to know about Dean's attempt to pretend he wasn't currently the state of Missouri's hangover champion.

"Anyway," Sam sighed. "We have blood, and we have the initials J.W." He stood slowly, flicking the knife clean and folding it up again, slipping it into his pocket.

"So now what?" Dean asked, swallowing and letting go of the door.

"So now we go see the helpful Sheriff Williams and ask him for his forensics file. He must have had the blood tested already."

"Cool. Is that going to take two of us?" he asked, squinting at his younger brother slightly.

"Actually? No. Go back to the motel. Sleep off the whisky and beer," he sighed.

"It ain't that," Dean grumped, rubbing his head, "it's the tequila."

Sam rolled his eyes, shaking his head. "One day you will explain to me why," he sighed.

"You know why, Sam. Gimme the car keys," he grumped.

"I'll drive you back. You look like a plague victim, Dean."

Dean lifted his head and mouthed 'you look like a plague victim' to himself, his face a study in sarcasm. Sam reached him and the door, pushing his shoulder to get him out through the exit.

The door swung closed behind them.

And then a man faded slowly into focus. He whisped into sharp relief, tilting his head and listening to the footsteps of the two men leaving the house by the front door.

His dark brown eyes stared at the closed door. His unkempt black hair, peppered with the occasional silver strand, matched his unshaven appearance as his mouth opened.

"Sam? Dean?" he gasped, rushing to the front window and looking out quickly. "Boys!"

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