Dean flipped through the last of the crime scene photos. A red-haired woman lay on the deck of a big, expensive boat. Blood had spilled from her mouth and feet, leaving small pools on the polished wood. Sam's article had gotten the details of her physical condition correct, but had failed to mention her clothing. She was dressed in a seashell bra, and her fused legs were only discovered after the shiny, green, costume mermaid tail was removed. Dean frowned down at the disturbing images. This was creepy, even for him.
"Bizarre, right?" Chief Kenwood said. "I gotta tell you, we're glad to have you in on this one, agents. We haven't had a murder in Reeds Spring in twenty years, let alone something like this." Kenwood stayed back near the door, looking sideways at the pictures, as though he preferred to keep as much distance from them as possible.
Sam tossed his stack of photos onto the desk and adjusted his tie. "Have you identified the victim?"
"Cara Young. She was a grad student at Mizzou. Here for the weekend with a couple friends. We're a very small town, but we get a lot of tourists here for the lake. The peace and quiet."
"Cause of death?" Sam asked.
Chief Kenwood turned his big, dark blue hat over in his hands. "That's the darnedest thing. Coroner says he can't find one. She lost some blood, but not near enough to kill her. Strong heart, healthy lungs, clean tox screen. She just…died." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I talked to every doc in town. Nobody's ever heard of anything that can make somebody's legs stick together like that. Or make your feet bleed for no apparent reason."
"How about her tongue being gone? Got an explanation for that?" Dean asked dryly.
The chief swallowed. "Well, yeah, somebody cut it out."
"What was she doing on the boat?" Dean asked. "Did they rent it or something?"
Chief Kenwood scratched his large, round stomach. "Nope. That's where it gets even weirder. She had no business on that boat. I've known the owners my whole life. They've been in Michigan since Tuesday, visiting their grandkids."
"We'll need to speak to her friends. Are they still in town?" Sam asked.
"Yeah, they're at the Bluebird Bed and Breakfast. Had a deputy talk to them this morning. They're real shook up. Did say one interesting thing: that her hair wasn't red before. Cara was a strawberry blonde. Nothing else very helpful, I'm afraid."
"We need to take a look at the crime scene, too," Dean said.
"Whatever you needs, agents. We want to catch this psycho right away. Whole town's spooked." Kenwood backed toward the door and opened it for them, leaving the photos on the desk.
Out in the fresh air, heading for the Impala, Sam spoke first. "I'll interview the friends; you check the boat for hex bags?"
Dean nodded, and they climbed in. He dropped Sam off at the bed and breakfast, then drove to the marina. The boat was even bigger and fancier than it had looked in the photos. He flashed his badge at an officer stationed on the dock, then stepped aboard. Two dried bloodstains on the deck just outside the cabin marked where Cara Young's life had ended. Dean stood over the spot for a moment, head bowed, mouth tight. Then he went to work.
Ten minutes of searching was all it took. He found the little pouch, a piece of brown cloth tied with string, tucked into the back of a drawer in the cabin. It rattled when he shook it. He grimaced his distaste, and stuffed the hex bag into his jacket pocket. It was a little late now, but they'd burn it later, just to be safe. "Freaking witches," he muttered.
"Chris-TEE-na, ohh, waah—"
He yanked his phone from his pocket and hit Answer. "Alright, Ruthie, are you really gonna—"
"We've got another one, Dean. Get to Lonely Grove Cabins, just west of town on Ozark Road."
"Another mermaid?"
"No. But it's another weird one. I have a theory. Get here quick."
"I gotta pick Sam up— Wait. What do you mean, get here?"
Click.
Dean rolled his eyes up to the clouds and huffed. This girl. Give her an inch…
He swung by the bed and breakfast to get Sam, who hadn't had much luck in his interview with Cara's friends. "Kenwood was right about the hair. They say the murderer must have dyed it. And he was right that they didn't know much else. They say she went out that evening to pick up ice cream from the little market down the street. It was close, so she walked. She never came back."
Dean pulled back onto the road. "And the cops have no witnesses, no security cameras, nothing."
Sam responded with a single shake of his head. "Tell me you found a hex bag."
"I got it."
"So at least we know for sure it's a witch." Sam glanced out the window at the lake speeding by. "Where are we going?"
"Ruthie called. We've got another body."
Sam's eyebrows shot up. "Another mermaid?"
Dean shook his head. "She just said it was weird." His voice tightened. "She's already there."
He watched for Sam's response, but Sam just gazed ahead at the road. "Oh."
"'Oh? That's your reaction? She's going to crimes scenes now—alone—and you say 'Oh?'"
Sam shrugged. "She wants to help. She was cooped up in the bunker for months, studying and researching…she already knows more lore than a lot of hunters we've met. You can't blame her for wanting to do something."
"Yeah, I can. Because that wasn't the deal. The deal was, she cooks and cleans; we keep her safe."
Sam's head swiveled toward him, one eyebrow sky high. "You do realize you sound like a Neanderthal, right?"
Dean frowned. He'd rather not answer that. "I promised to keep her safe, Sam. How am I supposed to do that when she won't follow orders, and she's always putting herself in danger?"
"She won't 'follow orders?'" Sam scoffed. "Since when do you get to give her orders?" Sam's voice rose steadily. "And what if that werewolf never turns up? What if some other hunter got it and we never find out? Are you gonna keep her locked up in the bunker for the rest of her life?"
Dean tried to reply, but Sam cut him off. "You act like she's helpless, but she's already saved your ass twice. Maybe instead of this macho alpha male thing, you could try teaching her to protect herself. She wants to learn, Dean, so why are you treating her like a little kid?"
Dean glanced between the road and Sam's reddened face, taken aback by his brother's intensity. He stayed quiet for a few seconds, then said, "Help me clear this up: Are we still talking about Ruthie? Or is this 'Therapy For Sammy's Childhood' hour?"
Sam pressed his lips together and faced the road again. "Okay, Dean. You want to try and psychoanalyze me, fine. But you know I'm right."
Dean kneaded the steering wheel in his hands, letting his brother have the last word. He hated to admit it, but Sam had a point. Ruthie was obviously going to do what she wanted, no matter what he said.
The solution was obvious: he needed to kill that damn werewolf. Then she'd be safe. She could get back to her normal life, and out of their screwed up one.
The thought should have made him happy. Instead, it twisted the pit of his stomach. The past few months had been the best ones he could remember. And it wasn't just because her cooking was almost as good as sex. He liked having her around. He liked making her laugh, and sometimes liked making her angry even better. He liked having someone to come home to.
A quiet, honest part of himself spoke up. You like having her to come home to.
Well, the quiet, honest part of himself could shut up. Ruthie was smart. She was a nurse. She could go anywhere, settle down, have a life. A family. Wanting her to stick around was selfish, something he wanted for himself, not for her.
She'd clicked into their lives like a final puzzle piece, and he knew once she was gone, something would be missing. But he owed her. He owed it to her to kill that werewolf and let her get on with her life.
In the meantime, he'd have to figure out how to keep her safe without keeping her prisoner.