"Dean!"

Sam's voice, urgent, perhaps even somewhat concerned, cut through the Chicago pizza shop. Dean felt the restaurant begin to soften, fade to black and then gray as his mind began to wake. The Winchester boy steadily grew aware of the hotel mattress beneath him and the Magic Fingers still working their potent magic against his back and shoulders. He had been relaxing for a moment and must have drifted off.

"Dean!" Sam's voice was right next to Dean now, and thus his eyes snapped open. With a groan, Dean put a hand to his forehead and blinked in the motel room light. A bare bulb flickered overhead, buzzing slightly. Water stains soaked the ceiling, and the faint stench of somebody's old cigarettes still lingered. This was not one of the nicer joints he and Sam had decided to stay at, but there wasn't much choice at the moment.

"Damn it, Sammy, you can't let me sleep for five minutes?" It was more of a statement of habit than one of meaning, older brother telling off the younger, and gruffly Dean wiped the sleep from his eyes.

"Sorry," Sam said, his voice half apologetic and half concerned, "It looked like you were having a nightmare. Everything alright?" Sam was hopeful, but also resolved, knowing his brother all too well to expect any quick answers on the state of his psyche.

"Yeah, what about you?" Dean fidgeted away from Sam's questions, the dream still unanswered in his own mind, and he needed a moment to think on it himself, "You know, the whole hallucinations thing?" Dean's face we pinched as he looked up at his younger brother. Sam opened his mouth, but he couldn't seem to find words right away, so he shook his head, eyes dropping to the floor.

"Same old, same old, I guess. But at least I can tell what's real now." Sam shrugged a little. Dean licked his lips and nodded.

"Baby steps." Dean had taken to repeating the phrase.

Just then Sam's phone began to vibrate in his pocket. He looked at Dean, and then pulled it out.

"Mind if I-"Sam began, holding up the phone, but his brother cut him off.

"No. Answer it. Probably Bobby," Dean yawned. Sam put the phone to his ear.

"Hey, Bobby. Any news?"

Dean sat up slowly, disgruntled, a little stiff along his lower back despite the Magic Fingers. Almost as soon as Dean made this observation, the machine stopped, petering out feebly, and he put another quarter in. It did not start.

"The one good thing about this damned motel, and it dies! Great," Dean fumed, slapping the little box with the butt of his palm, trying in vain to jar it to life. The dream had left Dean edgy, unnerved, something about seeing Death and the new impending task looming on the horizon didn't relieve his already less than perky mood.

"Right, thanks Bobby," Sam said into the phone, then clicked it shut, "So, according to Bobby, there's been another death." Sam put the phone back into his pocket, "And get this, the body was found a mile from the last one, along the same river bank, and it was chewed."

"Bobby say what it might be?"

"No ideas yet, but he's looking."

Dean could see that Sam was circling back to the nightmare. He was walking back over to Dean, a frown pulling at his mouth, concern working on his brow.

"Look, Sammy, before you ask," Dean's voice was fair, and he held up a hand to silence Sam before he even had a chance to speak, "It was Death. Death decided to… drop in."

Sam looked as stricken as Dean had in the restaurant. His mouth opened a little, confusion in his face. Clearly, this wasn't what Sam had been expecting to hear at all. It took him a second to reply.

"What did he want?" Sam asked uncertainly, shaking his head absently, and sitting down on the bed across from his brother's.

"He came to tell me that God is dying," Dean said as plainly as he could, though the slight incredulity he felt wriggled into his voice.

"…You mean Cas?"

"Not Cas. He meant God. Like the God. The one who couldn't give a rat's ass about us."

"But," said Sam, trying to fit all the pieces together, "What… does that even mean?"

"Beats me. He just said it was going to be messy then split before he could give the full details."

"No kidding," Sam leaned back on the bed, arms crossed, thinking hard, "Did he say anything else? Like if we're supposed to try and save…save God?"

"Not a thing."

"Well that's helpful,"

"It is what it is, I guess," Dean scowled a little, folding his arms behind his head, "Anyway," Dean nodded to the wall of missing person's faces, maps, and thumb tacks on the other side of the room, "Let's get back to the case." Dean wasn't keen on the subject of Death and God anymore. He'd said all he needed to, wanted to. God still raised a bitter nerve with Dean, the memory of his visit to Joshua and the Garden still lingering in his mind. Now wasn't the time to dwell on those memories and grudges.

"Dean, this is kind of big," Sam raised his eyebrows, "I mean…God is dying, and we don't know-"

"Exactly, we don't know. And there's nothing we can do about that right now, Sam," Dean said, an irritated edge creeping into his voice, "So let's focus on the work we can do."

Sam still felt like pushing the issue, but let it drop. He sighed, knowing that arguing was pointless and Dean was right anyway. There wasn't much to go on, but that didn't help him detach from the problem.

"Right, so, here's what I dug up while I was out," Sam stood up and walked over to the wall, half of his mind on the present case, the other half still picking at Death and God, however fruitless an effort that would be.

"The victims were found washed up," Sam prodded a few circled locations on the map, and then marked the new location Bobby had given him with a thumbtack, "And even though the killings happened around water, Bobby still isn't convinced it's Leviathan."

"Well that's good, I guess," Dean commented, though he wasn't sure if he should or shouldn't be happy about it.

"And they were all partially eaten." Sam grimaced and Dean raised his eyebrows, kicking his legs over the side of the bed.

"Wonderful," Dean's voice was less than enthusiastic, "What about the hearts?"

"Nope. Autopsies didn't report any missing organs."

"So we can cross off werewolf."

"Looks like it," Sam scanned the headlines posted up on the wall, "Oh, and one more thing I noticed," Sam added, "The victims were all men."

"Men? This thing have any particular taste in men? You know, besides eating them?"

"Young men, actually. Oldest was," Sam scanned the wall until finding the victim, "Frederick Bower, a 28 year-old can labeler."

"What about the latest guy?"

"Jeremy Parker, a 24 year old mechanic."

"Well," Dean stood up from the bed, stretching his stiff muscles, wincing a little, then picked up the keys to his beloved Impala, "How 'bout we pay Jeremy a visit."

"Works for me," said Sam.

Red clay dust blew through the small town of Ivory, North Dakota. It was a small thing, a dot easily missed on most maps, even by those looking for it. It took about forty-five minutes to walk from one side of town to the other, and the population never rose higher than a few thousand. Miles of nothing spread out around Ivory, just grass, woodlands, rivers, and lakes. The air was always slightly brisk, a cool wind usually blowing down from Canada. Today, the skies were blue, for the moment, but rain was forecasted for later that evening.

The citizens themselves were humble folks. A few horse ranches circled the town's perimeter, and the main good produced was cans. In fact, most of the workers in town worked in the can factory, though of course there were a few doctors, teachers, motel managers, a single bar and its tender, and one very unlucky, very deceased mechanic.

Sam and Dean Winchester were in the process of examining that deceased mechanic, standing in a snug morgue. The establishment was not built to hold more than a few dead at a time, and there were only a few staff on duty today, most of them disturbed and uneasy, never having dealt with a real murder case before. Needless to say, unusual deaths were not part of the Monday morning agenda in Ivory, and the town was ill-equipped for dealing with the recent string of tragedies.

Sam was still feeling slightly uncomfortable, just having received a very tight, very teary hug from Jeremy's long-time girlfriend who had been hanging around the place.

"Oh thank you! Thank you for coming!" She'd sobbed hard into Sam's shoulder as he awkwardly patted her back while giving 'help me!' glances to his snickering brother.

"Why do they always come after you?" A smirking Dean was still teasing Sam, eyeing the wet patch where the girl had soaked his fake FBI jacket (which was thankfully black to help hide the tears), "Seriously, you could get laid doing that."

Sam shrugged, "Look, let's just get back to the body."

"All I'm saying, Sammy, is that you're letting this wide open shot go. She was totally coming on to you." Dean winked.

"Body?" Sam pointed to the covered cadaver on the metal table with a finger.

"Fine, Mr. Sensitive!" Dean rolled his eyes, but walked over to the head and took the ends of the white sheet up between his thumbs and forefingers.

"You really think she was coming onto me?" Sam suddenly wondered out loud, thinking back to the whole hugging fiasco. Dean bit his bottom lip and grinned. Then he shook his head and unveiled Jeremy Parker. Or the parts of Jeremy Parker that still remained.

The man slept cold and pale, skin white where it wasn't raw and peeled back to reveal bone. His right arm and leg remained intact while the left side of his body bore deep bite marks. The teeth, from the impressions left in the skin and tissue, were large and even.

"What could leave teeth marks like that?" Sam asked, nose wrinkled, and he picked up a pair of tweezers from a tray sitting nearby. Carefully, he turned over the hanging flaps of skin in the man's arm, examining each fiber, each ripple of decaying mass. He tried hard not to inhale too deeply as he worked.

"Beats me," Dean said as he too began to examine the deep wounds, slipping on a pair of plastic gloves. While Sam worked on the arm and upper torso, Dean set to Jeremy's stomach and leg, combing over each cut and each hole.

"Hey Sammy," Dean suddenly straightened up, "Pass me your tweezers and a magnifying glass, will yah?"

"Yeah sure," Sam put the tweezers and a magnifying glass into his brother's outstretched hand. Dean held the glass up to one eye and gently plucked at a pucker of skin, a long hair embedded into it.

"While I'll be damned. Look at this."

Sam leaned toward Dean as he extended the dark thread of hair like a trophy. It was over nine inches long, thick, and had somehow managed to snake itself inside of the body. It hung like a tendril from between the tweezer points, dripping with bodily fluids.

"Think that's from the killer?" Sam asked.

"I'd bet baby on it," Dean said confidently, a proud smile riding his mouth, then caught himself, "Well, maybe not baby."

The two brothers then gingerly placed the long strand into a plastic bag and tucked it away behind Sam's coat lapel. Between the two of them, they decided that now would be a good time to question the weeping girlfriend, still presumably lingering around for them to appear in the waiting room. As predicted, she was still sitting slumped into a faded leather chair, cradling her forehead. Business in their steps, Sam and Dean took seats across from her and she looked up at their approach.

"Ma'am, uh, Kathleen was it?" Sam asked and the woman nodded.

"Did you find anything?" she asked, her words congested and nose pink.

"My partner and I need to ask you a few questions," Dean picked up where his brother left off, avoiding her question.

"I gave my account to the police," Kathleen said hoarsely, "But they didn't really think much of all of it. Or…that's what I thought, anyway. That's why I was so relieved that the FBI showed up. I guess they did believe me. I'm sorry, about that, by the way," She flushed a little, awkwardly directing the last bit toward Sam whose coat was now nearly dry, "It's been difficult."

"It's fine," Sam said, waving his had dismissively, but still sounding a touch awkward, "Would you mind going over what you told the police?"

Kathleen looked confused.

"Was Jeremy acting strangely before his death? Did you notice anything out of the ordinary?" Sam continued.

"N-no! He was perfectly fine-"

"Any cold spots around the house? Flickering lights maybe?" Dean said casually.

"Not that I noticed," she said with some hesitation and looked to each of the boys as if expecting explanation, "What does that have to do with Jeremy? It's warm out. The house wouldn't have a draft."

"Just making sure we have all the details, ma'am," Sam reassured her.

"If you could walk us through that night, that'd be great," Dean transitioned swiftly.

"I thought they'd have told you?"

"Run it by us one more time," Dean said with a polite grin, "For our official records."

"Well," she said slowly, sitting up a little bit in her chair, clutching its tightly, "He came home from work, same time as usual. He said he'd paid a visit to a ranch nearby at lunch. Ms. Porter was having car trouble, he said, so he went and helped her out," Kathleen choked and raised a hand to her mouth, tears welling up in her eyes, "Th-that was just like h-him. To go out of his way to h-help another. That was the second time in a week he'd skipped l-lunch t-to help somebody out." She reached for a tissue from the Kleenex box sitting beside her and pressed it to each cheek, wiping her eyes.

"And what happened after he came home?" Sam said gently. The woman drew in a ragged breath, trying to cling to some composure, looking up at the ceiling, beyond the Winchesters.

"H-he showered up and we had dinner together. Then he said he was g-going out. To the bar to meet with his buddies. It was his weekly ritual, so I let him g-go and didn't think anything of it. Th-that was-" she was starting to crumble again, her shoulders shaking, face reddening as the tears began to roll, "Until he didn't come home."

"And what made that odd?" Dean asked. Both the woman and Sam looked at him, and he quickly added, "I mean, other than, uh, the not coming home part."

"What we mean is," Sam clarified, giving his brother a sideways glance, "Is what about that wouldn't the police believe?"

Kathleen wet her lips, her eyes dropping to the floor.

"I know they think it's some sort of animal. Dog or something," she gave the brothers a furtive glance from behind bloodshot eyes, "But I had to look at his body. To identify him," her voice cracked but she carried on, "That was no dog. It's not like Jeremy to come home late. It's not like him to get messed up in something funny. And I know something funny is going on."

"Are you saying he was kidnapped? Or lured, maybe?" Dean asked.

"Look, I didn't see what happened. But I just have this feeling. Something isn't sitting right with me, and I know the police don't go on feelings alone. But if you could try and figure this out…You can't let it slip off to a rogue animal. I know there's more than that going on." Kathleen looked at them pleadingly, and she reached out with a trembling hand and gripped Sam's arm tightly, looking at him.

"Of course. We'll let you know if we find anything," Sam said, looking down at his arm, then up at her face. He smiled weakly and she managed to smile back.

"We should probably be going," Dean said, standing up from his chair, "Thank you for your time, miss."

She let go of Sam's arm, and he quickly stood up, hoping he didn't look too eager to leave.

The pair left Kathleen, who watched them go, thanking softly.

"I agree with her," Dean said once they were outside and out of earshot, "There is no damned way that was a dog."

"Any ideas where the hair might have come from?" Sam asked his brother as they walked to the Impala, red dust kicking up off the sidewalk as they strode.

"Well, we've got the local bar and Ms. Porter's ranch. Take your pick."

"Let's hit the ranch. It'll be dark soon."

"Ranch it is."

The Impala jostled its way across the off-the-beaten-path roads. Forests and rivers cut into the land, dividing the world between open fields and dense wilderness. Against the horizon clouds were building, the rain forecasted not long off.

Sam and Dean were following a long, thin, dirt road, signs appearing every so often, urging them to continue on. Then the silhouette of a farm house and fences rose over the hillside. The ranch itself wasn't particularly large, and only three horses were out to pasture, grazing.

The Impala ground its wheels into the dust and dirt as it came to a halt just off of Ms. Porter's property. The two brothers left the car and walked up to the farmhouse's front porch. The building had seen better days, its collapsing frame and chipping paint weeping of finer years. Part of the house was covered by a blue tarp, clearly under repair. Behind the house was a stable, small, meager, but in better shape than the sagging wood and stone the Winchester's now stood upon.

"Ms. Porter?" Dean said loudly as he knocked on the door, "FBI. We need to ask you a few questions." He continued knocking for a while, but there was no response from within. Sam was already poking around surreptitiously, peeking in through a window.

"Doesn't seem like she's in-" Sam was just saying, but a voice from around the side of house cut him short.

"You boys needin' somethin'?" Ms. Porter then appeared at the base of the porch. She wore a pair of threadbare jeans, with knees worn and dusty, that tucked into a pair of equally dirty brown boots. The shirt she wore was blue, the sleeves rolled up around her elbows. Her long brown hair she let flow behind her, and her face was slightly aged, revealing a woman maybe about ten or so years older than Sam and Dean.

Something about that voice, the way Ms. Porter called to them, and the quiet kind of strength she emanated, reminded Dean of Ellen. It was a quick connection, but it sent a sudden spasm of pain through his chest. He buried the thought as quickly as it had come, but the feeling he couldn't shake quite as easily, and he found he could not meet her gaze fully. If Sam had the same thoughts, he was better at hiding them.

"Yes. Ms. Porter?" Sam responded, straightening up and continuing on, hoping she hadn't seen him peeking into her house.

"That'd be me," she confirmed, "What can I do you for?"

"This is agent Reeves, and I'm agent Smith," Dean said, and both brothers flashed their FBI badges, faces impassive, "We're here investigating the recent deaths and would like to ask you a few questions."

"Anything you can tell us would be appreciated," Sam added.

"How 'bout you two come in and we'll talk in there?" Ms. Porter suggested, and the two agreed, "Anythin' I can get you?" she offered as they stepped into her house, "And don't mind the mess. I've been having the place remodeled."

"I'm fine, thanks," Sam politely declined.

"Water if you don't mind." Dean said.

"Sure thing. Take a seat." She indicated a sofa sitting by the window Sam had been peering through. Across from the sofa were a small coffee table and two chairs, tilted slightly to face a television set tucked in the corner. Sam and Dean took the couch and waited for Ms. Porter to return from the kitchen.

The living room itself was torn up in places. The wooden floor had been scraped clean of its finish, in the process of being worked on. The walls too had been washed of their color, and blue tape lined the edges of a few windows. The room was bare, save for the couch, table, two chairs, TV, and a hanging light fixture and desk on the other side of the room. A stair case sat beside the kitchen entryway, leading up into the second floor.

When Ms. Porter returned, she was not alone. A little girl, no more than four, hugged her legs and was whispering something hurriedly. Her hair was similar rich brown to Ms. Porter's, and her large, dark eyes shied away from the two strangers sitting in her living room.

"Not now, Greta," Ms. Porter said patiently, "Go upstairs for a bit and play." The girl pouted slightly, but with a quick glance to the two fake FBI agents, she scampered away up the stairs, her sandals smacking the wood with haste.

"Your daughter?" Dean asked as Ms. Porter handed him the glass of water.

"Yes." The woman sipped her own glass of water.

"You two lived here long?" Sam picked up the inquiry, leaning forward a little and resting his elbows just above his knees.

"No, actually. We both moved here just last year. Right after the floods."

"Floods?" Dean said.

"It rained for days about a month before we both moved in. Rivers were all swollen, mud everywhere. Awful weather. But I understand you boys are here to talk about the recent murders?"

"Yes," Sam confirmed, nodding, "We understand that Jeremy Parker stopped by your ranch the same day he died."

"That he did," she gave a somber sort of nod, "Pity, too. He was a nice fellow and the last good mechanic in town."

"Was he acting strangely at all when he stopped by?" Dean asked. "Was he irrational in anyway?"

"Mmm, no. Like I said, he was a pleasant guy. Why do you ask?" She looked between Sam and Dean, a hard look settling into her gaze.

"Just routine questions," Dean said, "And did he say anything to you? Anything odd?"

"Just asked me what was wrong with the car. Then he worked on it for a bit and I went back to training my mares. I paid him when he was done and he said to give him a call back if anything else happened. That was it. He drove off. And next I hear he's dead."

"So nothing out of the ordinary?" said Sam, looking quizzical, his brow furrowed.

"Not a bit."

"Have you noticed anything around town, maybe?" Dean continued, "Cold spots? Lights flickering in the local bar? Weird noises?"

"Not that I've noticed, no." Ms. Porter was looking a bit skeptical of the two agents before her, her eyebrows reaching into her hairline. The two brothers exchanged a quick glance.

"Now, those are some odd questions," she observed, her voice a little accusatory, "Mind telling me what this is about?"

"Like I said, just routine," Dean said, but he tapped Sam lightly with his foot, masking the movement by adjusting himself in his seat and clearing his throat.

"Routine?" The woman snorted, "Oddest damned routine I've ever heard."

"I take it this sort of thing doesn't happen often," Sam said, redirecting the conversation.

"Not as far as I can tell. You boys'd be better off asking the townsfolk these sorts of questions. I can assure you, there's not much help I can give, not with questions like those." Her voice had a final sort of edge to it, as though she didn't take well to off-beat questions.

"I think that's everything we need," Dean said, grinning at Ms. Porter in fake appreciation and standing up, "Thanks for your time. Mind if we take a quick look around before we head out?"

"Not at all," Ms. Porter said, standing up too and shaking their hands, "Though mind the horses. Nile bites."

"Will do. Thanks," Sam said and the two Winchester boys saw themselves out.

"Well I guess it's the local bar next," Sam said to Dean, shaking his head as they headed around back, his eyes on a snaking river in the distance and the darkening sky.

"Did that woman, uh," Dean said, feeling strange bringing it up, "Remind you of Ellen at all?"

Sam thought for a minute, and then shook his head.

"No…Not really. Why?"

"No reason," Dean said, intending to drop the conversation before it progressed any farther. He stopped at the fence, turning his head. Beside it stood a great brown mare, her hair rippling back from her neck in a gathering wind. She bowed her head a bit, lowering it and staring at Dean with one dark eye.

"Hey, Sammy!" Dean barked and Sam turned around, a few steps ahead of Dean.

"What is it?" Sam walked back over to his brother, "Find something?"

"Let me see the bag."

Sam pulled the plastic bag from beneath his jacket and handed it to his brother. Dean held it up, eyeing the long dark strand in his hand and the mare's whipping hair.

"Look familiar?"

Sam craned his head forward, squinting his eyes.

"A horse hair?"

"Looks like it. I think it might be time to give another Bobby call."

Lenny Barren was reeling in his fishing line. He was twenty years old with a soft curl of blond hair sitting on top of his head. His eyes were a watery blue color, but his hands were thick and gruff. It was his afternoon off from the can factory, and he had decided to spend it fishing.

The waders he wore kept him dry, reaching his chest. His brother teased him about how stupid he looked wearing a chest high rubber onsie, but he wore it with pride. He was a fisherman.

Nervously, Lenny looked up at the gathering storm, noting that he was still waist deep in the chilled river. He thought briefly of lightning strikes and left the slowly drifting water, careful not to trip on the river bottom getting out. The pole was wound up and rested against his shoulder, and he bent to gather up his tackle box. No fish today.

Lenny walked back along the river, through the thick trees buffeting his body like a tightly knit crowd, wandering along his newly discovered shortcut. The wind was picking up, and some distance away, he could hear the thunder rolling. His ears craned, enjoying the sound of the sonic boom now that he was out of the water. Mingling with the crash, however, he could hear something, something splashing. The boy looked across the flowing water, narrowing his eyes to make out what lay across it.

A black form stood in the middle of the river, the water rushing around its shoulders. Lenny set down his pole and tackle box and walked a little closer to the thing in the middle of the river. Upon closer inspection, he saw it was a pony. Its long dark hair swayed in the current, moving like reeds. It was a beautiful, young creature, and he gathered it must have escaped from one of the nearby ranches.

"Well this is no good," Lenny said, loud enough for the pony to hear, "There's a storm coming. You'll drown." He walked along the edge of the river so he came to stand parallel to the young horse. It turned its black head and looked at him, its eyes reflecting in the dying, grey light of the storm. A chill ran down the fisherman's spine, though he did not know why. He turned and snapped a leafy branch from a bush and extended it outward toward the pony.

"Here boy! Or girl!" he called across the sound of churning waters. The pony did not so much as twitch, and so Lenny moved closer to it, reaching out with branch and whistling, "C'mere!"

But still the pony did not move, only continuing to watch him. Lenny decided that it must be scared and wouldn't budge on its own. He'd have to wade out to it. The branch fell from his fingers and he entered the water, sloshing out to meet the dark eyed beauty.

He was now a few feet from it, the river easily up to his chest. Gently, he lifted a hand to its cheek, letting it rest there. The pony's flesh was icy cold, wet, though no shiver passed through its body.

"Come on," he urged the little beast, coming closer still. Rain began to fall, pattering against the foliage above. Thunder cracked again, and Lenny flinched although the animal did not. Lenny looked up at the sky, his face paling as he saw lightning fork across it. He spoke to the animal with a twinge of panic creeping into his words,

"Move!" he commanded and tried to move the hand touching the pony's cheek. But it did not move. It was as if his skin was suctioned to the black hide beneath his palm, an unearthly force keeping it there. A cry escaped his lips as he began to desperately pull on his hand, trying to walk backward toward the shore. He wriggled and writher, tugging at his arm with his whole body.

And now the pony moved, closing the distance between its body and boy's. Lenny could see how its skull seemed to press against its face, its flesh sinking between bones. Its ribs protruded from collapsing skin, and the darkness in its eyes, rolling in heavy sockets, seemed infinitely deep. No longer was the pony beautiful, but thin, emaciated, its breathing heavy and slow in its chest.

Lenny shook as it approached him, feeling its breath against his skin. Then it pressed its side against Lenny's, and he felt the rubber waders cling to the horse's body like a magnet. He was pinned. A long, trembling wail issued from him, rising higher than the beating clouds above him. Then the pony reared up on its hind legs, and he found himself at its mercy, utterly powerless to free himself. It came crashing down, submerging its body into the gushing river, and Lenny was pulled down with it.