Dark, Yet Lovely
Chapter Three

Dean hadn't actually intended on stopping by the sheriff's department after he'd dropped Sam at the motel, but found himself purchasing another suit (they didn't travel as well as flannel and jeans) and going anyway. He felt like he was pulling all the weight on cases lately, which worried him more than annoyed him. He had a need which he couldn't explain to move forward on this case as quickly as possible.

Maybe it was because he felt like he had to move quickly on something, and the big things were impossible.

He wasn't audacious enough to outright steal a file from a police lock-up, at least not in broad daylight. Maybe he would have a year ago, but not now. Dean wanted to reference the photo later and wanted Sam's voluntary or involuntary input on it, so a cell phone snapshot of a snapshot would have to do. The sheriff or his deputies hadn't lied about the additional set of footprints they'd found out by Matt Keener. He frowned at the picture, trying to ignore the body. The extraneous footprints were small, definitely womanish, but there was something off about the whole thing. He couldn't put his finger on it. He tipped the photo sideways and took another picture with the phone.

He had to wonder if there was a chance there was some inexplicable evidence in the other deaths. Glancing at his watch, Dean figured he had another half an hour here, if the lovely Rita was right about the sheriff's lunch plans. He'd work smarter, not harder. He was prepared but didn't want to push his luck, as it had been pretty phenomenal so far, by running into actual law enforcement now.

Locating the files for the other cases, he rooted through them quickly to see if anything jumped out at him. Nothing did immediately, but that didn't always mean there wasn't a pattern there. With limited time and not enough space on his cell to take pictures of every file, he quickly decided Sam was better at sifting through this kind of shit, which meant he had to get the files to his brother. It was about time for Sam to help him out a little anyway. So much for not stealing in broad daylight. He was a walking contradiction anyway. The files wouldn't be missed. He tucked them as inconspicuously into his suit coat as he could. Ducking his head out into the reception area, he ensured it was all clear before he stepped out.

"Get everything you need, Agent Waters?" Rita asked with a coy smile.

It was the suit. He frigging hated them, but for some reason women were even more all over him when he wore one. And, god, his job was rough sometimes. Rita was a picture of Midwest wholesomeness. Nice curves, nice rack, cute freckles. She tilted her head at him, toying with her hair in a signal he knew well. Dean sauntered over to her desk, perching on the edge of it with a smile of his own. He could disarm just about anyone with a smile. He saw what little defenses she had crumbling, not that he'd actually do anything with her. Just the inkling he had that they were dealing with some kind of succubus was deterrent enough to know better. Still, it would be stupid not to admire the cleavage she was offering as a gift.

"Actually, I did. You've been a big help."

Rita beamed at him. Once he and Sam had found their supernatural femme fatale, he was so going to have to come back to express his gratitude the best way he knew how. He gave her another wink.

"I'm glad," she said, blushing. "I hope you'll let me know if there's anything else I can do for you. Even if it's after hours."

"Oh, you can bet I'll be in touch," he said. Now wasn't the time to bust out his best Rico Suave moves, so Dean made a quick, graceful exit. It was better to leave them wanting.

All told, he'd spent nearly two hours on this. Sam should be rested by now. Dean navigated back to the motel, half expecting Sam to be up and at the computer. Opening the door, though, he discovered his brother still sawing logs. Normally he'd let the guy sleep, but he really was a bit tired of Sam acting like it was a chore to hunt the way they always had. He contemplated pouring water over Sam's head, but instead he put the case files on the table, took off his jacket and moved to the bed. He pushed on Sam's shoulder.

"Hey," he said. "I know you need your beauty sleep, but it's time to rise and shine, man. We got work to do."

Sam mumbled and settled himself deeper into the mound of sheets and blankets.

Okay, water it was. Dean filled a glass, pulled the pillow off his brother and dribbled a few or, y'know, many drops on Sam's forehead. It got a reaction, but not quite the one he'd expected. Sam was up in a flash and Dean found himself pressed against the far wall with his feet nearly off the ground, Sam's forearm at his throat.

"Whoa," he choked out. "Easy, Tiger, it's just me."

For a second, Sam's eyes were wild and Dean had a flash of déjà vu he did not like at all. But it passed, and Sam turned contrite, befuddled and let him go. Dean tried to remember Sam ever waking up ready for a fight like that before, and couldn't.

"Sorry," Sam said breathlessly. "I'm sorry."

"Have a good nap?" Dean tried to shrug off the tension the only way he knew how, with a weak attempt at humor. "Sweet dreams?"

"I had to learn to be on my guard better while you were…" Sam ran a hand through his hair, heading for the bathroom. "Sometimes I forget I … you startled me."

Dean clenched his jaw and again pretended it didn't bother him that Sam was not acting like the Sam he knew. It'd pass and things would be just fine. He was counting on it. It was all he could do. He stared at the bathroom door until Sam came back out, a trail of water running down the side of his face, his hair dripping slightly. He looked better, more refreshed. Sam looked up, catching his eye. Dean looked away, like he was guilty of something.

"What time's it?" Sam mumbled, peering at his watch. "Damn, I slept longer than I meant to. You find out anything?"

"Maybe," Dean said, relieved to move on to safe topics. "I stopped by the sheriff's department and got my hands on the files for all five deaths."

"What's in them?"

"I don't know. I didn't have time to look at them, so I figured a snatch and grab was the way to go." Dean sat at the table, moving Keener's file to the top. He flipped to the photo. "Take a look at this, though."

Sam sat across from him, pulling the file until it was in front of him. He studied it for a minute, furrowing his eyebrows. "There's something wrong with this."

"That's what I thought, too. I haven't been able to figure out what."

"Huh." Sam turned the picture to one side and tilted his head the other, doing some of the same visual acrobatics Dean had tried. He put the picture down and tapped on it. "It looks like these prints here are going and not coming, but that doesn't make sense."

Dean leaned closer, eyeing the photos again from yet another perspective. It actually helped a little bit.

"It's like whomever or whatever was out there stood facing away from the body. Or is it just me?"

"It's not you." Sam chewed on his lip, bending over the photo. "Does it look like someone knelt here?"

Sam was right. There were two knee impressions very close to Keener's body, and the indents which would be for the toes looked wrong. Smaller. More like heel prints than anything. But that wasn't right. It couldn't be. It defied the laws of biology, and probably physics.

"So we're dealing with something female, with messed-up feet," Dean said. "It's hard to tell with a flat image, but it seems these here should be the tracks leading to the body, but they don't match up with the kneeling."

"The cops probably didn't even bother examining this stuff," Sam said. He grabbed the other files, leafing through them. "These could end up being a better source than family or friends."

While Sam poked around the files, Dean cracked open the laptop. He thought briefly about digging out their dad's old journal to scan the extensive monsterology contained within it. So much had changed. He wasn't even sure where it was anymore, and it seemed strange to him that it had only been a few years since Dad had died. Since Dad had gone to Hell for him. Sometimes Dean felt like an old man, like he was carrying the years he'd lived in Hell on his shoulders. Not like. He did carry them. They'd become entities in and of themselves. Sometimes Dean wondered if his father's sacrifice had been worth it and doubted it was. He was conscious of Sam in the room with him and wondered for the thousandth guilty time if his own sacrifice had been worth it.

Sam standing up and walking to the fridge pulled Dean out of his own miserable headspace. Sam, who was working on this case though Dean didn't think his heart was in it. Because he wanted this hunt. Dean shoved his conflicted feelings aside, uncomfortable with those thoughts alone. He focused on the computer, starting with a broad search on succubi.

Dean scowled at the extensive number on their potential suspects list. It didn't surprise him that so many female supernatural things were slanted toward being highly sexualized, often vampiric, or at least the evil ones. There was some unwritten rule about that somewhere, and it was a total cliché. Non supernatural women couldn't be put into two convenient categories. Whatever. All Dean cared about at the moment was that it made for more work.

"Beer?" Sam asked after a few minutes. An hour.

He kept staring at the succubi list for another second, half-ignoring Sam. The only one Dean could say with certainty wasn't their monster was the original succubus. Lilith. His mouth all of a sudden tasted like ashes and cotton candy and blood and fear. Beer would definitely be good, though not strong enough.

"Yeah," Dean said. "Are you seeing anything in the files?"

"No, man." Sam thunked a beer on the table, returning to his seat. He toyed with the corner of his bottle's label, flicking it with his thumb. "They're pretty standard. No suspected foul play, no reason to look for anything we'd need. I think we caught a break with Keener, both with his widow and the sheriff."

"I was afraid you'd say that." Dean drank half of his beer in one go. "I've got about a million possible suspects over here. A lot of the supernatural sisters have pretty much the same friggin' MO."

"What about the feet thing?"

"Have at it, Poindexter," Dean said. No reason to tell Sam he hadn't found anything because he'd been too busy brooding. "Let your geek light shine free."

Sam twitched, a bare lip curl and a flash of anger in his eyes. He didn't say anything, commandeering the laptop and staring at the screen instead. That was Sam these days. All business – hard edges and no nonsense and when had it all begun? Dean wasn't sure if it wasn't all in his head, jumbled up with everything else crammed in there. Not real, but all too real.

Dean finished the beer and got another, glad he'd thought ahead and stocked the fridge. He took several long swallows of his fresh beer before he rejoined Sam at the table. He thumbed through the police files. It was either that or watch Sam stare at the computer like Dean wasn't in the room. After a few minutes, he still didn't see anything worthwhile in them. He flicked a bottle cap, sending it skittering across the table, resulting in another annoyed glare from Sam. Nothing he could do about that. He had a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach, identifiable as hunger not pain.

"Hey," he said. "If this is going to take a while…"

"Maybe we should go grab something to eat first," Sam said, filling in the blanks.

"You read my mind." Dean grinned. He was hungry and, at this very moment, bored out of his gourd. "This stuff won't go anywhere, and it's been a long time since breakfast."

"Yeah, I suppose I could eat."

Finally something they agreed on without hidden strings or half-truths. The victory was small, but Dean would take it, even if he knew the simple act of dinner was somehow no longer the same anymore either. He stood, shaking off the thoughts that wouldn't do any good. A quick bite and then they'd be back to hunting things, maybe saving people. The basics. The easy, redemptive things.