Chapter 4

As much as he hated to admit it, Sam was right; this looked like one of their kind of cases. Six fully grown men had been slain on the sidewalks of the 1st street-Franklin-Monroe-Slope block. Cops never found any trace, prints, or witnesses; of course.

"Alright, so what do you think it is?" Dean yawned.

Sam sighed, "I don't know. We barely have anything to even begin research. I mean no one knows if it makes any certain sound, it doesn't leave any sulfur residue, no smell, no markings, no…anything."

"Demon?"

"No sulfur residue," Sam reminded him. "And what would be the point in killing six—as far as we can tell—unrelated men? And we haven't found any of the usual markers; no electrical storms, missing persons, cattle mutilations…"

"Alright, so…shape shifter?" Dean pondered.

"Again, no motive. I mean, what's the point? The only thing these guys had in common was that city block."

"So we start there…maybe there's some really pissed off vengeful spirit roaming the sidewalks."

Sam took a deep breath, "Maybe." Here they sat again, in another diner in another town; sipping coffee and blocking out meaningless conversations around them. Sam, desperate for something to do, started searching news articles based on that city block and ignored Dean's impatient fidgeting.

Finally Dean couldn't take the boredom any longer and went to the diner's baked goods counter. He stood there staring at the brownies and cookies for a long time before he realized what he wanted wasn't ever going to be found behind a chocolate-ladened counter. "Get me one of those brownies with the white crap on top," he didn't look at the cashier as he ordered and paid. He tucked the brownie in his pocket and pulled out his phone. Nadia's number was listed second on his phone, right under Bobby. He knew it was a fruitless move even before he pressed "send;" but he listened to it ring until her voicemail answered. Maybe she didn't have a new phone yet or maybe she was keeping hers, just in case. He opened his mouth to say something but instead made a frustrated sound and snapped it shut.

As Dean turned, Sam flashed his eyes back to the screen in front of him and pretended like he hadn't been watching. Dean sat back down, "So far there have been no violent deaths, accidents, or suicides anywhere on that block."

Dean blew a frustrated breath through his pooched lips, "Figures. Why can't it ever be easy?"

Sam smiled, "I think you and I would be out of a job then."

"Fine with me."

"Uh, huh," Sam muttered.

Dean gave him an inquisitive look but got no response from his brother. Boredom seemed to hit faster and faster these days. He fought letting it go on too long, or else he was destined to think about things he didn't want to think about; people he didn't want to worry about. "We should go check it out."

Sam pulled his brows together, "Check what out? Just walk the block a couple of times? There is nothing to see; it's just cement and dried gum, Dean."

Dean rolled his eyes and gave a frustrated sigh, "There has to be something we can do." He stared at the wall above Sam's head for awhile, "Is there a pattern to this thing?"

"Not that I've found. I mean the murders keep getting closer and closer together…"

"That's kinda odd," Dean interrupted, "I mean most of our kind of things tend to stick to a schedule."

"Unless they have a reason to accelerate it."

"Yeah, like if the place is going to be demolished; but unless Colorado is planning on wiping out an entire city block…" Dean pointed out.

"We keep searching," Sam muttered.

Dean drummed his hands on the table and just when Sam was about to bite his head off; he jumped up, "Be right back." Sam closed his eyes, shook his head, and sighed before watching Dean sit at the bar and engage the waiter in conversation.

"Hey buddy, can I talk to you for a sec?" Dean called over the counter. The waiter finished wiping off the counter as he walked towards him. He was young, probably 16 years old, no doubt his first real job. Poor kid was the classic awkward prepubescent teenage boy; blotchy face and all.

"Yeah?"

Work on the vocabulary dude, Dean though to himself. Yes, sir. How can I help you? "Black coffee", two can play this game. He sat down on one of the empty stools and pulled out his FBI badge.

"Yeah?" He looked Dean up and down. "What can I help you with, officer?" the last word dripped with sarcasm.

Dean smiled and fought the urge to punch the kid in the face. "My partner and I are investigating the deaths down the street," the kid looked unimpressed. "This is a pretty small town, I'm sure talk gets thrown around in a diner like this…"

"Yeah, I hear Mrs. Miller is having an affair with Mr. Sawyer."

Dean forced another smirk on his face, "That so." The boy nodded, "Well, I was actually wondering if you'd heard any theories about what was going on with the murders around here. You know, people who swear it must be their paper-stealing neighbor or the squirrelly young kid down at the local diner."

The kid smirked back at him and seemed to think something over, "No, I haven't heard any theories bounced around here. I mean there are the things people say about Mr. Crawford; but he's just a weird old man." His demeanor changed from reluctance to cooperation so fast it threw Dean for a loop for a second.

And Sam says I'm not relatable to people, ha. They just have to be the right kind of people. "This Mr. Crawford, he live anywhere near the crime scenes?"

"Nope. He lives up on Bluekerry Hill; creepy old house and all. But I'm telling ya, you're barking up the wrong tree," he shrugged his shoulders, "guy just wants to be left alone."

Dean leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest, "Yeah? What makes you say that?"

"Well, first of all he's my grandpa; so I know his pretty well. Second, he's been in a wheelchair since Vietnam." Dean tried to slip easily from the arrogant posture while the kid continued. "So I doubt he's sneaking out at night, driving himself into town, and then hacking up grown men."

"Logical conclusion," Dean murmured. "You ever heard about any other killings in that area? Suicides? Accidents? Those kinds of things…" he waited for the kid to tell him his name.

"Warren. Can't say as I have…" he thought for awhile, "No, nothing ringing any bells. Sorry, this is a quiet town…present topic excluded" he added.

"Well," Dean took one last sip from his cup, "Thanks Warren. You've been…" Dean searched for an appropriate adjective.

Warren chuckled, "Don't strain yourself, man."

Dean's face lit up in realization and he snapped his fingers, "A smartass, that's it." He smiled and returned to the table where Sam still sat searching through missing persons reports.