PRESENT DAY
They weaved between flashing cop cars and ducked under the lines of caution tape, badges flashing. "I'm Agent Way, this is Agent Stump. What's going on?"
The police officer's face was pinched and slightly pale. "The Miller family. Mother and two kids missing. What's left of the father is in there." He paused and then said, "I knew them," looking back at the house. "They were a happy family, Harvey was a good man. Worked as a volunteer firefighter down at the station sometimes."
"Mind if we take a look?"
"Go ahead, but it's not pretty."
Sam followed Dean up the front porch stairs and into the house, passing a forensics team snapping on latex gloves and bagging evidence in the hall.
"You know this doesn't fit the pattern," Sam said when they were out of earshot. They both swept the living room with practiced eyes. It was a bloody mess, the furniture mangled and tossed around. Sam's gaze caught on a framed picture resting on a busted shelf, the family smiling out through the broken glass. "This town is out of the way, unless they suddenly decided to double back. Could just be a regular kidnapping—"
"Sam." Dean was crouched in the corner, by the worst of the bloodstains. He held up two dusted fingers. Sam's mouth twisted.
"Sulphur."
TWO YEARS EARLIER
The street was dark except for the pools of light from the streetlamps, what filtered through the bar's grimy windows, and the buzzing neon sign that read TATTOOS & PEIRCINGS. The city rumble seemed muted, far away. It was raining, just drizzling really, but I could feel the moisture soaking into my jacket and dampening my hair. I didn't move.
The tattoo shop was closed, obviously; it was late. But I stared at the empty windows from across the street, my breath catching as I took a step forward. The neon sign flickered.
A couple stumbled out of the bar, music and voices spilling out with them, snapping me out of my trance. I turned quickly, tightening my hands on the handlebars of my bike. What the hell am I doing? I swung my leg back over the seat, unsure when I even got off, and pedaled away hard, forcing myself to fight off the urge to look back.
The girl unlocks her apartment door with shaking fingers. She is shivering, soaked through and dripping. Outside the rain falls heavily, thunder rumbling across the sky. She puts her keys down on a cluttered side table and slides her soggy backpack off her shoulders. Then she peels off her clothes and leaves everything in a waterlogged heap on the floor.
She wraps her arms around herself and walks across the room. The apartment is small and run-down and full of stuff—mostly books, old and new, stacked haphazardly. A flash of lightning freezes her, illuminating wide, scared eyes half-hidden by her damp hair falling over her pale face.
It's only an instant and then she's back in the dark, hunching her shoulders and turning away from the window. She nearly trips over a pile of books before sinking down on the mattress in the corner. She curls up tightly and closes her eyes. She does not sleep easy; the tension barely leaves her body.
There's a noise in the background that doesn't belong, a high-pitched whine nearly drowned out by the rain. The girl tosses restlessly, kicking off the blankets, a thin sheen of sweat on her face and neck. The noise intensifies and he can hear her ragged breathing.
"Sam..."
He watches from above, as if pinned to the ceiling. The storm rages on outside and the faulty latch on the window rattles. Ominous whispers in ancient tongues filter through the dark and fill the room like an inhale of smoke.
"Sam!"
He's suddenly bolting upright in bed and the disorientation is so strong he can't breathe. Pain spikes across his temples. "Hey, hey, talk to me Sammy, what's going on?" There are hands on him, holding him up, touching his face, but he's too dizzy to focus. He gasps, "Dean," but the dream pulls him under again with a burst of static in his ears.
Hands snake out of the dark, tightening around her wrists and ankles, pulling until she's spread out and helpless. She struggles, arching off the bed, but it's useless; their touch is poison, black blood filling her veins, crawling through her arms and legs, across her stomach and chest, up her neck and cheeks and into her eyes, like tears in reverse. Her face twists with pain, her mouth opening in a silent scream, and then—
The noise stops. The hands let go and slither back into the shadows. She lies still.
Her eyes open.
"I thought the vision stuff wasn't happening anymore," Dean said as he paced. "I mean, not since we ganked Yellow-Eyes, and that was years ago—"
Sam sat hunched over on the edge of the bed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "It's not." He could feel a nasty headache gathering like storm clouds behind his eyes and he heaved a sigh.
"So then what the hell?" He stopped short, standing tensely at the end of the bed.
"It was just a dream," Sam said, rubbing a hand over his face.
"A dream," Dean repeated disbelievingly, eyebrows shooting up.
"Yeah, a dream. Not a vision." Dean looked at him for a long few seconds. Sam met his eyes, keeping his face as sincere and reassuring as he could. "Dean, I'm fine."
Dean made a face and blew out a sigh. "One hell of a freakin' dream, man."
"Tell me about it," Sam muttered. A shudder ran down his spine, like cold fingers on the back of his neck. He took a breath. "Look, it's way too early—or late, whatever—to be awake. Let's get a few more hours in, okay?"
Dean watched him carefully. Sam let his shoulders slump, let his exhaustion show, dragging a hand through his hair. Dean hesitated a moment more and then nodded, getting back in his bed. Sam turned off the bedside lamp and rolled over to face the wall.
He listened to Dean settle and tried to do the same. But Sam knew he wasn't going to sleep. When he closed his eyes he still saw hers, open and black as fresh ink, staring up at him.