Turns out that spending the night in an airport still sucks just as much as it did three years ago. So glad I got to confirm that. Anyway, my bad luck means I got another chapter proofed, so here you go. Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed.
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"This is getting ridiculous."
Dean rolled his eyes as Sam finished helping Cas rescue his—once again—brush-entangled trench coat. Of all the inconvenient things to wear while hiking, an ankle-length coat had to be up near the top of the list. "Ridiculous, and we haven't found anything useful." They'd circled the boulder three times now, increasing the distance from it with each pass, and so far they'd discovered absolutely zilch. Cas hadn't felt so much as a twinge. As much as he didn't want to—and he really didn't want to—he was starting to get the feeling that they were going to have to get back on the trail and continue towards Cold Oak.
"Let's get back on the trail and keep going," Sam said with a sigh, removing a few burrs from the sleeve of his coat. "This isn't getting us anywhere. If we don't find anything there, we'll find Cas something more appropriate to wear while hiking and then come back and try again tomorrow."
"If this doesn't work, we'll sneak into the morgue tonight and see if that tells us anything, first," Dean corrected. He didn't like tramping around in the woods on a good day, and days spent searching for bodies—or death sites, at least—were, in general, not good. "You heard back from Bobby about those symbols yet?"
"No, not even a message that he got them." Sam pulled out his phone and checked the screen. "The signal is pretty weak out here, though. He might not be able to get through."
"Figures." Dean watched Cas try and edge around a thorny bush and then grinned slightly. "Cas, your belt is caught again."
Cas looked about as frustrated as he ever did as he pulled it free. "I believe that we should get back on the trail as well."
Despite Cas' head swinging back and forth as they walked—he was doing a pretty good bloodhound impression, although Dean wasn't about to say that out loud—he obviously wasn't sensing anything. And all-too-soon they were heading down a steep hill and into the old ghost town.
Dean hadn't looked around the place much the last time he was here; between Sam dying in his arms and bringing Sam back from the dead and the full impact of the deal he'd made setting in, he'd had a lot more important things on his mind than the local décor. Looking around now…well, it just didn't look like much, all things considered. There were a couple dozen obviously abandoned buildings, all bleached to the same muddy gray by the passing of years. The only splash of color was a scrawled graffiti signature on the side of the one nearest the trail, garish against the muted colors around it. They came around the edge of the building and into the town center, and he recognized the old cracked bell he Bobby had used to identify the town.
He glanced over at Sam, who was ignoring the bell and focusing on another building. "What is it?"
"That's where we were hiding. Before Andy was killed, before we knew it was Ava calling the demon, before I knew that Azazel had told all of us that only one person would be allowed to leave town alive. When I actually thought that we actually had a chance." He gave a bark of bitter laughter.
Dean shook his head, not sure what he could say, but before he had to come up with something Sam straightened abruptly and his focus shifted to the building next to the one he'd been staring at.
"What was that?"
Dean frowned. "What was what?"
Sam swung the shotgun off his shoulder and into his arms. "Something just went past that window. You didn't see it?"
"No."
"Nor did I," Cas agreed from just behind his shoulder.
"Do you feel anything?" Dean asked. Maybe it had just been some kid. If there was nothing here but another graffiti artist looking to make his mark, there was no reason to stay.
"No." He frowned. "Well, perhaps. Yes."
Dean rolled his eyes and caught Sam making a similar expression. "Could you narrow that down a little?"
"It is not…death. Not a murder site. But there is something here."
That was enough to make Dean reach for his gun as well. "Which way?"
"It is not…." He shook his head. "It is everywhere."
"Useful." Sam muttered as he shifted to cover their backs.
Dean shook his head and turned towards the building that Sam had indicated. "Well, I guess we might as well start with whatever's in there. Don't suppose you got a clear look at it?"
"I just saw a flash of something light-colored—I only saw it because the rest of the window was dark."
Well, they'd gone into plenty of situations with even less information, Dean supposed, as the three of them began to move forward. They couldn't have been more than ten or fifteen feet from the door when a clatter broke the silence, and a man—human, as far as Dean could tell—crashed through the window beside the door, scrambled to his feet shedding glass shards in all directions, and dashed around the corner of the building.
"Cut him off!" Dean called, running after the man. "Stop!"
The order to cut the man off had been directed at Sam, but it was Cas who took off around the other side of the building while Sam followed hard on Dean's heels. It didn't really matter, though, as long as one of them was there to take the guy down.
The man turned sharply, at a right angle with the building, and Dean cursed as he realized that the building was deeper than he'd realized. Way deeper, that looked like a freaking stable on the back. How old was this town? Cas would never make it all the way around before the guy disappeared into the hills. And the guy was fast, too, or at least he knew this area way better than a casual visitor should—he didn't even stumble on the rough ground as looked back over his shoulder at Dean and Sam.
There was a clicking sound from off to his right, but before Dean could figure out what Sam thought he was doing, he was flying sideways. The wooden side door of the building they'd been circling splintered and fell aside as he crashed through it, and if he hadn't already been cursing whatever the hell was happening, he'd sure as hell have started then. The door might have been a hundred years older than he was, but it had been pretty damn solid, and his shoulder had gone numb on impact. Fortunately it was his left side rather than his right which meant that his dominant arm was still good for shooting, but that assumed that he could find something to shoot at.
His curses were cut off as he hit a wall and all the breath was forced from his lungs. A grunt from beside him told him that Sam had received the same treatment, although a glance to the side—without turning his head, since that didn't seem to possible—showed that he'd managed to hang onto the shotgun. Dean gritted his teeth and struggled against invisible bonds pinning him in place. No skin-walker was doing this, that was for sure. It had to be something—
"Hello, boys."
