Part 2!

Thanks for reading guys!


Perhaps a Little Unusual


Dean was laying on his jacket that he'd transformed out of, waiting for something to give. He continued to try and figure out DANASHULPS, but couldn't for the life of him. He thought it might be an anagram, but he realized he wasn't that great at mind games. A piece of paper would have been nice, but he didn't want to try out hands for size, in case something went wrong and they had an APB out for his arrest. He was supposed to be dead, but with his luck...

Ans ashulpd.

Ash anlpdus.

Push aldus.

Damnit. It was no use. Dean huffed and laid his head on his paws. He wasn't getting anywhere.

It was then that he heard:

"Iroquois."

He perked up. It was their codeword! Except it wasn't Sam's voice. It wasn't a man's voice at all. It was a... a woman - Dean perked his ears up - was that the detective that had arrested Sam? Her voice was soft, a whisper like she was nervous.

Dean poked his head out of the bushes towards the bench to see the woman officer sitting, stiff as a board, looking nervously around the park. Her hands were fiddling with a necklace over her shirt. She looked like a mess, but not really outwardly. It was just a sense about it all. About her.

And she knew the code word, which meant Sam had sent her.

She repeated the word.

That was the nail in the coffin for Dean and he quickly shook himself out, transformed, and shrugged on his jacket.

"So," Dean said as he stopped next to the bench. The woman jerked to look at him. "You called?"

"Dean Winchester." She breathed.

He sat next to her. "Maybe. Now, what can I do for you...?"

She looked hesitant but clearly decided that she was in for it already. "Diana Ballard."

Fiddling with her necklace, she told him exactly what Sam had said to her. It came out like most stories did. Rushed, confused, and just generally unbelieving. She showed him her wrists. The entire time she shook. Seeing a spirit for the first time could make anyone piss themselves.

"This doesn't make any sense," Dean murmured to himself as he reviewed everything. "Did Sam say anything else?"

"Uhm, he said... Ashland street?"

"Ashland?" Dean asked, seeing the letters from Danashulps. "It's a street?"

"Yeah, does that mean anything to you?"

Dean nodded and rose from his seated position. That was a pretty big clue.

"Come on, we've got to go back to our motel."

She dug in her heels.

"Whoah, I'm not going anywhere with you. Not until I get some answers." Diana demanded, backing up from him.

The familiar sighed, and glared half-heartedly at the woman.

"Alright, listen," Dean told her. "I'm not going to sugar coat this. The last people to see this spirit, they died. Karen and Tony Giles died because of this spirit. Now, it's after you."

The detective was already pretty pale, but now she was white.

"We don't have time for you to go about questioning me. You trusted Sam enough to come find me, now give me the benefit of the doubt."

She looked like she wanted to give him anything but.

"Please," He pleaded, and she softened slightly. "We don't know how much time we've got."

The detective finally relented.

"Fine. Where is it?"


Sam still had papers and images around his laptop from where he and Dean had been researching the night before. So when they arrived at the motel, Dean took his brothers place to begin again. Diana took one look at everything Dean was scrounging up and snatched up a few photos.

"How'd you get those? Those are from crime scenes, and booking photos."

"Don't worry about it," Dean told her. "Plus, they're probably useless. Sam was just looking for any missing persons reports. If you find any crime scene photos, you can ignore them - we hadn't gotten far."

Diana went through first one pile, then the next. Each piece of paper she picked up made her brow furrow deeply as Dean sat and started looking into Ashland street. Missing persons, violent deaths, the works.

"You... you and your brother did all of this?" She asked.

Dean was too distracted to notice she'd said 'brother.'

"Mostly Sam," He conceded, not without a hint of pride. "He's the brains behind our operation here."

"This is good police work," Diana told him.

Dean spared her a momentary look to give a shit-eating smile as if saying, 'I know', before he turned the computer towards her.

"Here. I've got pulled up in separate tabs pictures of different people, tell me if one of them is our girl."

As she went to work, trying to remember the face that had come at her in the bathroom, Dean stretched. This was not his preferred position for this kind of work. He much would have rather read from old, musty books as he laid on his bed then sit upright and proper on the laptop. Not to mention Sam would have killed him for touching his precious technology.

"This is her!" Diana said excitedly. Dean perked up as she turned the computer back to him.

Dean punched a few keys and clicked on the right links. He read aloud.

"Claire Becker? Twenty eight years old, disappeared about eight or nine months ago."

The detective was up and pacing. "But I don't even know her." She exclaimed, biting her thumb. "I mean, why would she come after me? Why me? Why Tony and Karen?"

Continuing reading out the important bits, Dean told Diana, "Well, before her death, she was arrested twice."

"What for?"

"For dealing heroin... You ever work narcotics?"

With a frown she nodded. "Yeah, Pete and I did. Before Homicide."

"Well..." Dean turned to her. "You ever bust her?"

"Not that I remember."

Well that was odd. Sam might have just let it slide, but that was really an odd statement. Baltimore was far from a small town, but it wasn't huge either. If a cop worked narcotics, they knew the people they needed to watch out for. And seeing as Claire had clearly been a somewhat repeat offender...

It stunk to Dean.

"It says that she was last seen entering 2911 Ashland Street. Police searched the place, didn't find anything."

And now it reeked. Dean wasn't sure of what yet. Coverup? Mob? Gang violence?

With heroin it could have been any of the above or a combination.

"Guess we gotta check it out ourselves. See if we can find her body."

Dean closed the laptop with finality as he got up off his ass to grab his jacket. This was the part he was good at, after all. Being a bloodhound. Sniffing out the spirits. If he had had more time and Diana's life wasn't on the line, he would have taken his time to just roam the town as a dog.

"Wait - what?" Diana was still far behind him.

"Well, we gotta salt and burn her bones. It's the only way to put her spirit to rest."

"Of course it is."

Dean was honestly impressed the woman had stayed with him this far.


"So... Saint Louis." Diana said as they took the impala over to Ashland street.

Dean's grip on the steering wheel tightened. "Yeah?"

"Was that a spirit, too?"

Cute, Dean thought with an eyeroll. But Diana felt... shocked, still. She was absorbing everything and had yet to make a real go of the facts. She hadn't gone running yet, so Dean thought, what the hell?

"Sweetheart, that was a shapeshifter." He checked his mirror. "Took my face, turned into me, made sure to get caught as me so that no matter what I'd be burned anywhere I went. Luckily we managed to gank him when he was still in my skin, so that was one thing we didn't have to worry about. The government thinks I'm dead."

Diana just stared out the corner of her eye at him. "That... that seems like a lot of trouble just to hurt you."

"Not really," Dean gave her a smile. "Shapeshifters just have to ruin your life once. From then on, the government does the rest."

"I meant, specifically, for you."

"My brother and I... we're hunters." Dean had explained what he and his family did so many times, he had a way to do it for just about every situation. Though, being a wanted murderer with a cop sitting passenger seat was new. "This is what we do. This side of the mississippi we're the most dangerous things those monsters have to worry about."

"And you do it, too, don't you? You just... you hunt and kill monsters?"

"You have your job, I have mine," Dean told her simply, hoping the conversation stopped then.

Thankfully, she stopped with the third-degree and sat quietly as they parked.

"2911." Dean announced as he looked to the old decrepit, abandoned building. "Looks like the kind of place to dump a body."

Diana agreed.

Together they exited the car and entered the building. Dean hoped this would be a simple salt and burn, but how this year had been going - he'd settle for just saving this detective from certain death, no matter which way it came.

"So what exactly are we looking for?" The woman cop asked Dean as they both turned on their flashlights.

Dean did it for her benefit, seeing as he didn't need it anymore.

Taking a deep sniff through his nose, he tried to pinpoint the old smell of blood hidden under dust, rot, and decay. It took him a few sniffs, even turning halfway around, before he picked up a trail leading farther into the house. Beckoning for Diana to follow him, he told her what she wanted to know as they walked.

"If Claire died here, we're looking for a place somebody might have stashed a body. False wall. Squeaky floorboards. New paint."

He said the last point for a giggle but Diana took him immensely seriously. Even split from him. Dean kept track of her by her footsteps. Listened to her state by her heartbeat. For the first few minutes, everything was going just fine. He smelled a faint ghost-like smell, but it was still that odd almost-ghost smell. Just this side of ectoplasm.

"Dean!" Diana screamed suddenly as her heartbeat took a jog. "DEAN!"

Dean sprinted to her. She had gotten to the lower floor, to the eastside of the house, but Dean was quick. Taking the stairs two at a time he finally saw her, standing against a wall.

"Hey! Hey, I'm here, what is it? What happened?" Dean demanded, his nose picking up the fresh smell of almost-ghost.

"Claire..." Diana murmured as she pointed at the spot on the wall.

Dean's brow furrowed as he looked every which way, expecting an attack. Maybe only Diana could see her?

"Where?" Dean demanded.

"She, she was here."

"Did she attack you?"

"No. No, she was just like, reaching out to me." Diana denied it, almost defended the spirit. "She was over there by the window."

Dean frowned severely as he saw some faint light from where a window might be.

"Here, help me move this." Diana commanded him, as she went over to the shelving unit that was blocking the window.

When it is all moved, everything falls into sharp relief. On the wall, illuminated by the street lamp outside, are the letters D-A-N-A-S-H-U-L-P-S. Except, it's not a person's name, it's a business name. Which meant... the spirit was seeing this constantly. Constantly haunted by its death-place.

Dean shivered as he tried to smell death through the mold, dust, and rotting wood.

"Our mystery word, explained," Diana muttered to herself as she stared at the wall.

It took Dean a few seconds more, but he smelled it. Taking a few more steps towards the wall, the smell became even more potent. He would bet his left ass-cheek they were about to find Claire Becker. Dean laid a hand against the brick wall and felt a wave of sadness the likes he'd not felt since his father had died rush over him. It was bereft of any comfort. It overflowed him and it wasn't until Diana called to him that he realized he was crying .

"Hey!" She called, grabbing him firmly by the shoulder and yanking him back from the wall.

"Sorry," Dean apologized, though he knew not why, as he turned away to brush the tears from his face. "I don't - That's never happened before."

"You alright?" Diana asked, cautiously, eyes darting to the wall and back. "Did... Did Claire do something to you?"

"No clue," Dean dismissed easily enough as he straightened up. "But she's behind that wall. I'd bet my left arm."

Shoving the crying-incident to the back of his mind, he followed his words with action. Making sure his elbow was covered, he went at the brick wall to bring it down. It didn't take long to make a hole and what came through the hole cemented any doubt Dean had had. The wave of rot that escaped with the stale air made Dean pause for only a second.

"Got her." Dean said, as he continued pulling brick after brick after filler and plaster from the wall.

When he got about halfway done, he found the burlap sack.

"You know," he said after a moment of digging. "Something doesn't feel right."

Diana said, deadpanned. "Well, you are digging up a corpse."

He gave her a roguish smile as he kept pounding the bricks. "Naww, that's just another part of the job."

Her heart gave a little tick but she remained calm.

"Then what?"

"No vengeful spirit I've ever wasted has lead me to their own body... so why the hell would Claire lead us to her remains?" It was a conundrum. One he hoped to figure out by looking at the body. "It doesn't make any sense."

"Here, help me out."

Another few moments of working around the hole and his own stature, and help from Diana, he got the sack out of the wall. When Diana and he uncovered it, they found the remains of Claire Becker, arms crossed, damn near skeletal. Preserved, in a way.

Well. This was making no sense. Dean hadn't been around very many spirits who wanted their bodies found... The few times it was a bit of a catch 22 situation. Two spirits, one vengeful and the other wanting to stop the other spirit. Always ended with salted and burnt bones, but it was still an anomaly.

Softly, very aware that this had once been a human, Dean touched the bodies wrists. They'd been bound and on the dessicated flesh were dark bruise marks. She'd been tied up.

"Her wrists. Yeah, they'd be bruised just like yours?"

Diana nodded, before abruptly stopping and reaching forward for something in the skeletons shirt. What she pulled forward to finger was a little pendant of a thing. Green stone, with some kind of messianic design. Lots of angles.

"That necklace mean something to you?" Dean asked.

"I've seen it before. It's rare. It was custom made over on Carson street."

Then she was reaching into her own shirt to produce a matching necklace.

"I have one just like it. Pete gave it to me."

And just like that, the world righted himself and he understood. It was like someone had shined a spotlight in his memories. It was like putting together a four piece puzzle with directions.

"Yeah, that'd do it," Dean said as he dusted off his knees and rose to a standing position. "This is all starting to come together."

Diana was still on the ground next to the dead body. "I'm sorry?"

"We've had it all wrong," Dean told her as he pulled out his phone to check the time. It had been about twenty or so hours since Sam had been arrested. "You see, Claire's not a vengeful spirit, she's a death omen."

Diana stared at him blankly.

"Excuse me?"

"We've had this wrong the whole time. Claire's not killing anyone. She's trying to warn them." Diana looked to the corpse as if asking her opinion. Getting none, she turned her disbelieving eyes to Dean, who rolled his own. Explanation time. "See, sometimes spirits, they don't want vengeance, they want justice. Which is why she led us here in the first place. She wants us to know who her killer is."

"Now, Diana, how much you know about that partner of yours?"

Dean gave her time to think about that. But it didn't take long for the detective to stiffen and mutter.

"... oh my god."

"Got something?"

"About a year ago, some heroin went missing from lockup." She told Dean, her hands clenching as she hugged herself. "Obviously it was a cop. We never found out who did it. But whoever did it would need someone to fence their product."

"Meaning Fence," Dean gestured to the body of Claire Becker. "And your partner was the supplier. Welp. that's fucked up."


The girl had been murdered to keep the Detectives Sheridan from being discovered. It had all seemed so... human. Such a human response to a human problem.

Dean was always disgusted by what humans could do to humans. He understood it in a way, he was a killer and a murderer by many people's definition, but he just didn't get why it had to be human on human ? Why human violence, when there were already plenty of monsters out in the world?

I mean, Dean thought to himself as he drove Diana and himself back to the motel. You could always just run away.

It had almost worked for Sam.

Running away was a solid, solid strategy and yet he almost never saw it utilized. At least, not in human violence. They stood their ground, kept weakening their own resolve day by day until they just snapped. Geesh. Do some yoga or something. Killing people wasn't the answer. Killing monsters, on the other hand, was a great way to pass the time. A time honored tradition, really.

Diana had called the precinct as soon as she had gotten her head around her partner being a murdering sociopath. It took her a little longer than most other officers Dean had known go through the same thing. And there was quite a list, now that he thought about it. Most officers Dean let into the 'secret' of monsters and spirits, were all about justice and the american way - but ready to look the other way to protect him and his family. Because they were doing work that the government would never sanction in a million years.

Now that Diana was over it, she was firm, resolute, and laser focused.

Dean had seen that look before. It was a woman's stare. The kind of 'I-am-going-to-fuck-shit-up' kind of look. It was the look he sometimes got from girls who he'd hooked up with and stretched certain truths - and said girls found out. It was usually followed by a slap. It was the look of a lover scorned.

The call to the station went like this:

"Yes, that's right, release Sam Winchester."

"Ma'am?"

"I have new information."

"Enough to clear him?"

"The kids story checks and he was just in the right place at the wrong time..."

"Sheridan's gonna be pissed,"

"Speaking of my partner... don't tell him you've released the Winchester kid."

"... Diana? What do you - you don't mean - "

"James."

"...Are you sure?"

"I wish I weren't."

"Got it Diana," There was a momentary pause. "And if he finds out we let him go?"

"Tell him I'm bringing in someone to interrogate. Someone who was found with blood on their hands. Or anything, really."

"Shit, Diana, if what you're implying is true..."

"I know."

There was another pause.

"Sam Winchester is being released as we speak."

"Thanks, James."

"I hope you know what you're doing, Diana."

She hung up.

"Fuck."

That was an understatement.

"Sorry your partner has turned out to be such a douchebag..." Dean tried for comfort.

"They released your brother," Diana told Dean, and Dean politely pretended as if he hadn't heard her entire conversation. "He's being let out now."

"Good." Dean relaxed for the first time in almost a day.

"I would suggest both of you leaving as soon as possible."

Dean didn't need to be told, but it was nice for people to give a shit about him.

"You got it, Boss." He said, winking at her. "Hopefully your city won't have need of us again."

"And if it does?"

Dean mulled it over. She hadn't exactly battled anything with him. Their mission had been more of search and destroy, which turned into search and find. He didn't doubt she could handle herself with human problems, but for the supernatural... Dean took a moment to scrounge around in his breast pocket. He kept slips of paper with numbers written for his various phones. Checking to make sure it was a phone he still had he held it out to her.

"Here," He said as he handed her one. "You think you got something you don't know how to deal with... you just call and leave a voicemail. If we don't get back to you in a week, tops, assume you're on your own."

"On my own?"

"We check our messages daily," Dean told her. "So if we don't get back to you in a week, that means we're not checking our messages. And that means we have bigger problems to deal with."

Probably death. Or demons. Or werewolves. Or vampires. Really anything could take them away from civilization for weeks at a time.

"Got it." Diana said as they finally pulled up to the motel. Both of them exited the car and there was a moment of awkward standing, before Diana shoved her hand out and firmly shook Dean's hand. "Thank you for all the help."

"Thanks for not shooting me on sight," Dean responded right back.

She gave him a wry grin, before getting into her car to drive off and interrogate her soon to be ex-partner. In both senses of the words. Luckily Dean didn't have long to wait for Sam to appear. The precinct wasn't far from the motel and Sam had long legs.

"You back yet Dean?"

Still, Dean heard him about a half a mile away. With a smile, he made his way into the motel room to turn into his dog form to communicate with Sam.

:Glad to be a free man again?:

"Jesus!" Sam cursed, but Dean could only hear him speaking. "Alright, well that answers that question. How are you doing? Did you save the detective?"

:You bet your ass I did. And get this, not a vengeful spirit, but a deathomen.:

"I fucking missed a death omen?" Sam whisper shouted at himself. Clearly beating himself up. "Damnit. So, wait, that means that - "

:Wasn't the spirits doing. It gets better, Sam.: Dean smiled as he told Sam all about the what he and the detective had accomplished. He kept nothing out, maybe embellishing a little, but hey, he was allowed that, wasn't he? He finished right when Sam stopped in front of the door.

: I gave her our number in case she needs us again - It's unlocked. : He told him smugly, stretching out on his bed.

"I'm impressed, Dean," Sam said as he threw his jacket on the back of the chair in the kitchenette. "Now, can we go eat? I'm starved."

Dean was back to Dean in a minute.

"I saw this great burger place about three miles down the freeway," Dean was already jabbering as he grabbed his keys from his pocket. "It smelled like the best kind of burgers."

"Greasy?" Sam questioned, and even if he was tired he still smiled.

"Of course," Dean flashed him a smile as they locked up.

It wasn't until after they started walking to the car that Dean realized he could have just called Sam...


Dean stared at himself in the mirror, tried to compare the face he saw to the face from his memories.

In and out. He tells himself to breath.

It wasn't often he stared at himself, and even with his Familiar senses and better memory and even though people thought he was vain (he was, but that just meant he knew he was attractive, didn't need to confirm it 6 times a day); he didn't care to stare at his face. Because if he did, he'd see things.

He'd start complicating things.

Dean was a soldier. He followed orders. That's what he did. His father had been his commanding officer more often than his parent. That was just a fact of life. Dean had accepted any kind of support in his life, and it just so happened to come from his father's lack of parental feelings and falling back on military leanings. John trained him. John commanded him. Dean obeyed. Often without ever opening his mouth to question; often without thinking to question it. Questioning was Sam's job. Dean's job was to kill.

Dean was a weapon, a damn good one too, and he knew it.

What other fourteen year old had killed a werewolf with a silver knife? What whole family saved innocent people? What other kid got to hang out with cold-blooded monster-killers and share a beer or two after a successful hunt? What other kid got to learn how to burn a body with whatever material you have available?

Dean was a soldier; he knew it.

He embraced it. It gave him purpose. His dad had said he was a soldier, and he took it at face value.

In and out.

Soldiers had purpose. Dean had purpose.

Except... he doesn't. Not anymore. Somewhere along the way, the line has been blurred; somewhere along the way he's stopped being a soldier. Fighting had turned from saving innocents into survival. Hunting had turned into more of a hobby, a choice, rather than a lifestyle. Somewhere in the past year, something had changed. And Dean knows exactly when it had begun, but he doesn't know where it really began to bleed into the rest of his life.

Didn't know when he stopped fighting, however unconsciously.

Didn't know the exact second. Or day. Or anything. He just knows what is the catalyst: Sam.

Sam doesn't realize the power he has over Dean. He's oblivious.

It's the only saving grace to this entire situation once Dean realizes what the hell even is happening .

When they hunt, he commands; Dean obeys. When they fight, Dean's found himself differing to his brother's judgement. Hunting locations used to be discussed between them, but Dean finds that he gives Sam's picks more weight than his own. Hell , Dean had even caught himself not meeting his brother's eye when he was particularly pissed. And he's not afraid, no, it's not that... it's something else that makes him keep his eyes away from his face.

Sam's more than just his person, his brother, his hunting partner...

Dean doesn't know what to call this new thing they have. But it's more than every single other title, or relationship, he can think of to describe it.

He knows when he realized it. The first time. Really sat down and thought about it.

It's a tuesday. Sam asks him to hand him something. And Dean does. No commentary, no snarking, no teasing him about how he could have just reached out and grabbed it himself. No teasing about how lazy he is. Just - compliance. It starts with a frown as Dean keeps his hand where Sam had plucked the object out of his palm. It starts as Dean tries to remember the last time he had ever really teased or prodded, or poked his brother into outrage - he doesn't remember.

For the first heart-stopping moment, he recognized his own thoughts for what they are.

How long had it been since he had taken charge? Took lead and grabbed the monster by the horns? How long had it been since he drove off, all by himself for a long drive? How often did he take a break from Sam and go be his own person?

Dean was finding the numbers, when he tried to calculate them, to be miniscule. Tiny. Non-existent in some cases.

"Hey, Dean, you okay?" Sam asked him as Dean had near-enough to a panic attack.

In and out.

He doesn't squeak, but it's a near thing. He has to clear his voice before the words he's trying to form come out of his mouth in a way that makes sense.

"I'm fine."

Sam doesn't believe him, Dean knows by the side-eye, but Sam also doesn't know he has the power to ask Dean and get an answer. And Dean knows now, if Sam were to just open his mouth, ask him what's really wrong, Dean would buckle and cave as if it were dad commanding it.

But it's not dad. It's Sam.

And Dean doesn't know yet, if that's better.

But Sam leaves it. And Dean knows, at least, he can live with that. One breath at a time.

In and out.