Chapter Two

The police department shined ahead like a beacon, the finish line of an incredibly long marathon. Dean sighed; driving for half an hour with a nutcase murmuring away in his ear had been slowly grating at the little patience he already possessed, even in that short space of time. It took all of his effort to not force the accelerator pedal through the floor of the car in his attempt to get to the station as quick as possible. This was not how he intended to spend the night, even though he hadn't planned on finding women and beer either. Why do we always get dragged into crap we don't want, Dean wondered to himself, massaging his thumb over the leather steering wheel. Pulling into a parking space, Dean glanced over at his brother again for what felt like the hundredth time that night. Sam was rubbing his neck after leaning awkwardly in his seat to listen to their crazy hitchhiker. His scrunched up mellow hazel eyes were cradled by the purple bruises of sleep deprivation. In short, his brother was looking worse for wear.

"You pieced all the clues together yet Sherlock?" Dean asked, cutting the engine.

"I'm guessing that he's in a state of shock, he's still not making much sense. Just muttering about woods and being lost," Sam shrugged. "How are we going to get him out of the car?"

"With great difficulty, by the looks of it," Dean sighed again, his eyes flicking to the mirror to watch their new passenger. The man's eyes were still trained on his feet, as if he was waiting for them to start tap-dancing, or to disappear altogether. He sat with his arms draped beside him on the seat, palms facing upwards. He was shaking, and Dean wasn't sure if that was a result of his drenched clothing, or if something had freaked him out in the woods. But Dean found himself not caring much anyway; his moment of peace had been ruined by this bum, and he had reverted back to the semi-pissed, semi-exhausted mood he often found himself in lately.

Sam broke Dean's reverie of staring into the rear-view mirror by swinging the passenger door open, cold air rushing into the car. Pulling himself out from the Dodge, he was expecting to have to manhandle their guest out of the vehicle, but was surprised to find that he had allowed Sam to guide him out by his arm. He stepped slowly from the car onto the gravelly surface of the parking lot, chips of asphalt popping under his shoes. For a moment, the man surveyed his surroundings, his blue, panic-ridden eyes scanning the area. He then looked back down at his feet again, his body twitching slightly. The whistling of the wind obscured the sound of his mutterings, but Dean could still see his lips working away at the words in the orange glare of the streetlamp.

"We should get him out of the cold," Sam said, as the wind played with the bangs on his forehead. Dean nodded in agreement, looking forward to the moment when they could get rid of the poor bastard.

…

Leading him to the steps, however, took much longer than it had to get the guy out of the car. He would not cooperate with Sam when he tried to usher him forwards, his feet seemingly glued to the ground beneath him. In his frustration, Dean was tempted to drag him along after them, or to leave him outside whilst they reported him. Finally, with great effort, they managed to herd him to the glass entrance, helping him through into the brightly lit foyer. A woman behind the desk glanced up as the cold air from outside embraced her. When her eyes fell upon the three men, two of which were supporting who she assumed to be a drunk, she stood up. However, as they got closer, recognition dawned upon her. Looking down at the stack of 'missing' posters that were piled on her desk, she felt a wave of relief. At least one has returned, she thought, as before her stood Jamie Stevens, a twenty-four year old man who had been missing for five days.

"Derek!" she called, stepping out from behind the teak desk, approaching the men. "Where'd you find him?" she looked up at the two men holding Jamie up. They were as soaked as him, their coats dripping puddles onto the tiled floor.

"About thirty miles back, on a stretch of highway. We think he came out from the woods," Sam replied, looking down at the squat woman. Her brown hair was pulled up tight in a bun on top of her head. Sam guessed that she was in her mid-50s, on account of the grey strands that were threaded through her hair, as well as the laughter-lines that curved out from her eyes and around the sides of her lips. Although her expression was anxious as she looked at the missing-now-found man, her watery eyes spoke of a kindness that was not commonly found in a police department.

"Yeah, he won't bloody shut up about the damn woods," Dean muttered. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that Sam had shot him a sharp look.

"Well, all I can do is thank you boys. This poor guy has been missing for five days."

"That's no problem, ma'am," Dean said without much enthusiasm, becoming more agitated by the situation he had found himself in. At this moment, the Sheriff decided to enter the scene. As he approached the gathering of people, Dean noted that he sported a particularly rotund beer-belly, a thick moustache and dark, unkempt hair. He wondered if all the personnel at this police department lived on a diet of chocolate-coated doughnuts and coffee.

"Yes, Mary-Ann," he asked, before turning his gaze to the three men in front him. The Sheriff's eyes widened when he recognised the missing boy. How upset his parents had been when they reported him as missing, the Sheriff recalled, the boy's mother barely managing to compose her emotions. "Where'd you find him?"

Is there an echo in here, Dean thought. Before he had chance to answer though, Mary-Ann interrupted.

"They found him about thirty miles away in those damned woods, Derek. I told you there was something going on in there," Mary-Ann said earnestly, her eyes staring up at the Sheriff. Without glancing at his brother, Dean knew that Sam's attention had been caught - hook, line and sinker. If he had been a dog, his ears would have pricked up. Dean, however, didn't like where the situation was headed.

"All right, Mary-Ann, I'll look into it. For now let's just sort this man out and get him a cup of Joe. I think he needs it." Mary-Ann's eyes suddenly sparkled; nodding quickly so that the bun on top of her head bounced, she turned around and scuttled off down the hallway. The sound of her heels could be heard clicking against the hard floor.

"Now, if you boys follow me, we'll get this young man taken care of. I will need to take a statement from both of you," the Sheriff paused. "You both look familiar, do I know you?"

Dean inwardly cursed. The brothers looked at each other; Dean could read his brother's expression like a book. We need to get out of here, Sam's eyes were saying. Dean could not agree more. Ever since a couple of leviathans had gone out on a public hunting spree wearing their faces, Dean knew they had to be careful walking into places such as police departments. He knew it had been a reckless move bringing the nutcase to the station, where they could be easily recognised, but he had just wanted to be rid of the burden. At best, they could be arrested. At worst – well, Dean didn't dare to think about it.

"I don't think you do, sir. We just have those faces. You know, familiar ones," Dean tried to laugh, forcing a smile onto his face. He looked over at Sam, who was nodding and murmuring an agreement through gritted teeth.

The Sheriff shook his head and smiled. "Well, anyway boys, if you'll come with me and we'll get this business wrapped up." Following the Sherriff, with the nutcase in tow, Dean had a sinking feeling that their night was about become much longer and much more complicated than he had initially dreaded.