EIGHT

Hughes County Clerk's Office
Pierre, South Dakota
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
6:49 PM

Dean had been surprised to learn that the County Clerk's Office was still open after five o'clock, especially given that it was the day before Thanksgiving and half of Pierre appeared to be closed down. Navigating the Ranger through the town's muddy streets, Dean kept the truck's pace slow as he pointed his brother and himself toward the building that was their destination—a small, stucco place that sat within a group of similar edifices which made up the area's one office complex, the set of them shadowed underneath the yellow streetlamps that lined the road leading to them.

Sam hadn't returned to the motel more than a couple of hours ago, his hands full with bags of food and brain stuffed with information that added nothing to their case. Though Dean was sure it would be interesting to know that the Greek language had made subtle changes in the nearly five-thousand years since its inception, he also didn't care enough to retain that fact in his mind, Dean shutting his brother up before he could get into the finer details of the things he had been reading while waiting in the long line at the McDonalds drive-thru. As soon as the two had finished catching each other up on what they had learned in their time apart—Sam telling his older brother what Bobby had said and the differences between the two arrowheads, whereas Dean only informed him that he had taken an interest in looking more into the idea of gnarls—they had taken a break to eat, supposing what they should do next while Dean gnawed on his burger and Sam chomped at his salad.

It hadn't taken either of them long to realize that they had been so sidetracked by the presence of objects and sulfur that they had completely forgotten to look into the background of the victims at hand. Wondering whether or not he should head back to the library, Sam had nearly left the room before a proposition struck Dean, one that he had been surprised to hear come out of his own mouth. Suggesting that they head down to the County Clerk's Office, Sam had stopped in the doorway to look at his brother, the startled look in his expression quickly followed by a smile. However, there was still the familiar problem of coming up with an alias that would appease whoever worked inside the building, some security officer or whoever might stop them to find out what they were doing there, a problem that didn't seem to last long, Sam apparently on a roll in terms of lying to the authorities.

Donning clean jeans and as close to matching shirts as they could, the brothers had ditched the motel a little before six, making the drive into town on the treacherous, water-logged roads. While Dean knew that what they were doing was likely to get them caught, and was no more plausible than the cover they had used earlier in the day, he also had faith in both of their abilities to adlib, the brothers having worked together before to talk their way out of and into a situation. On the ride in, Sam had called ahead, planting the idea into the person who had answered the phone's head that they were pest inspectors coming by to give the building its monthly spray, apologizing several times over for showing up so late in the day and promising a discount on the next billing cycle for the delay, whoever Sam was talking to sounding harsh and irritable. Though Sam had hung up seeming unsatisfied by the conversation, he hadn't told Dean to turn around, their destination only a few minutes away, giving them enough time to fall back in case they needed to take a moment to come up with something better.

Stalling at the red light before pulling into the lot the group of short structures provided, Dean cast a glance at his brother before exchanging an undeterred nod, Dean taking this as a sign that all systems were go and parking the Ranger into a stall five down from the door of the building they were about to head into. Though he knew it was unlikely that whatever employees were still working inside would be able to see more than the front grill of the truck from any angle, Dean didn't want to take the chance, someone attempting to make sure they were legitimate by trying to find labeling on the side of the truck authenticating them as employees of Pierre Pest Protection likely to blow their cover in seconds as soon as they found nothing. Dean didn't want to deal with anyone prodding him with questions, anyway. He already had enough on his plate.

Getting out of the cab and walking slowly toward the front entrance, Dean surveyed the outside, taking in the windows that they passed and noticing that they were small, high up two-by-two squares, a pair to each room behind them. Though he was sure they would be easy to slip through should they have to escape in a hurry, reaching them would be the hard part. Even at six-foot-one, Dean's shoulder barely grazed the sill, Sam's three-inches-taller frame still looking short in comparison. Figuring there would probably be boosts inside, Dean disregarded the sense of entrapment the tiny panes of glass temporarily gave him, instead pulling open the doors and heading inside behind his brother as Sam lead the way.

Staring over at them from where she sat at the front desk impeding them from walking further in was a woman dressed in a black business suit, her dark hair pinned back to make her face appear severe and constrained, the lines in her expression showing a look that seemed unyielding of any disturbances. Approaching her, though pausing in the entrance to take in the glare the woman was sending their way, Dean stepped in front of his brother in an attempt to take control of the situation before anything could get out of hand, or before inquiries about what they were doing there could be tossed from across the room.

Clearing his throat and flashing a non-descript badge, Dean introduced himself and his brother as the same names as from before, the woman seeming not to recognize Michael Wilton and Randy Gane from anywhere, though pursing her lips tighter in disbelief the more Dean spoke. Not saying much of anything as Dean continued to try to ask for permission to walk the premises, the woman's glare narrowed, her eyes seeming to hold a test of truth as she watched Dean struggle with his words, Dean repeating the same question seven different ways over and over again until the woman in black finally opened her mouth.

"I will be notifying your superiors of your tardiness," the woman eventually said, her voice thick with a harsh English accent, the prissiness and randomness of it giving Dean the sense that something was off. "I ask that you do not stain the floors or the rugs of the offices you intrude upon, and that you leave the windows cracked in any area that you tend to. Is that understood?"

"Yes, ma'am," Sam piped up, nodding and offering her his sincerest smile.

Shooting it down by narrowing her eyes more, the woman shooed them off, her stare following the brothers as they made their way down the hall to her right, disappearing a few moments later as they rounded a corner. Exchanging confused glances, Dean shrugged while Sam began trying doors, seeing which ones would open and which ones wouldn't, both of them heading inside and taking a look around as soon as they discovered an unlocked office.

"So, what are we hoping to find here?" Dean asked, whispering as he opened folders from inside of file cabinets, finding nothing but copies of e-mails about building commissions and acreage acquirements in the one he was reading.

"I don't know. Anything on the victims, I guess," Sam frowned.

"Yeah, well, something tells me we aren't in the right room."

Nodding in agreement, Sam shut the clasped envelope he was peering into and shoved it back into place, quietly shutting the drawer of the cabinet and turning to survey the room one more time before heading for the door, peeking out into the hall both ways before signaling for Dean to follow him. Continuing their way down the corridor, Dean and Sam split up to take two different sides, each of them entering whatever open area they found themselves while the other stood watch outside, Dean getting the growing sense that what they were looking for was being guarded by the strict Head-Librarian-in-training behind the front desk, the sinking feeling in his gut expanding at the idea of having to talk to her again.

Though Dean and Sam have been inside offices like these before and knew exactly how they worked—with whoever was requesting information having to bring a legitimate photo ID to the front in order to have to fill out a form and wait an hour for processing and procurement of whatever was being searched for—Dean had a feeling it would raise a few red flags if they came in asking for a folder of birth and marriage certificates and tax records on two people whose deaths were currently under investigation. Before they had even considered using aliases, both brothers had realized how conspicuous it would be for two men without any authority to come in and start looking through files the police had undoubtedly searched through themselves, which had been what had prompted them to come up with the bug inspector idea—a manual search of the items they wanted probably taking a shorter time to find on their own, anyway.

Standing outside of an office on the opposite side of the building from where they had started, Dean bounced on his heels anxiously while Sam searched the inside, the sound of nearly silent wheels rolling as his brother pulled open drawers reaching Dean's ears as he strained his hearing. Suddenly, the sound of whistling carried out toward him, Sam's short, demanding trill causing Dean to fall flat on his feet and rush inside the room, shutting the door quietly behind him before rounding the desk that took up most of the space. Bent over a splayed-out folder, Sam trained his flashlight on what appeared to be a list of names and the location of their records, most people sorted alphabetically, with the top half of the alphabet being placed in HR1 whereas the other half was in HR2.

"You got a map?" Dean asked, looking around the room for something that would indicate where those two listed places would be.

"Right here," Sam said, shoving a piece of paper in front of his brother, the faded ink barely visible in the dark. "Thankfully, it's not that far from here. We're going to have to be careful, though. It's right next to the front entrance."

"Great," Dean frowned, rolling his shoulders back as Sam closed the folder and left it where it was, heading for the door and checking for anyone coming again before waving Dean out of the office.

Making their way down the hallway as quietly as they could, Sam and Dean tiptoed toward a pair of doors at the end of the infinite corridor, the passageway they were traveling down seeming to loop the building, starting and ending with the desk in which the woman remained perched. Straightening up as they rounded the last corner, the brothers exchanged a worried glance before nodding to one another, Dean swallowing hard and holding his breath as they neared the archway labeled HR1 with a shining gold plaque that reflected in the overhead light. Trying as quietly as they could to approach it without making any noise, Dean peered around, looking for any sign of the woman, and hoping against hope that the door would be unlocked and easy to open.

Heart thudding in his chest, Dean closed in on the door first, Sam a step behind him and stopping to stand watch while Dean attempted to silently turn the knob. Making it all the way around, the entrance popped open just as quietly as the turning handle, allowing the brothers to slip through the small gap between the ornate wood and its jamb before shutting it behind them and letting out a long, deep breath of thankfulness as they looked around. From what he could see in the dark, the room they now stood in the middle of appeared to be nothing more than a scattered library, with carpet underfoot and various filing cabinets lining the walls, all with labels on them detailing what was inside. On the walls, cliché reprinted portraits hung from their frames, along with the same motivational posters that Dean remembered seeing back in high school.

"So, split up?" Sam asked after a long moment of staring.

"Sounds good," Dean nodded, immediately crossing over to the nearest cabinet.

Pulling out his cell phone to use the light to read the labels on the drawers, Dean ran his fingers gingerly over the cold metal they were encased in, eventually finding the section containing names starting with Es through Ex. Yanking it open, Dean allowed the drawer to push him backwards a good three feet, the length longer than he had initially assumed. Turning to the side of it, he began to paw his way through the names, passing Everard and Everdeen before eventually uncovering Everglade. Sliding out the file folder, Dean glanced across the way to find that his brother was doing the same, apparently discovering Bryan Jackson's information quicker, having already spread out the contents on top of a cabinet with a door left open.

Pushing a button on his mobile as the screen went black, Dean used the glowing blue to scan through the various marriage, birth, and homeowner's certificates contained inside, skimming each as he came across them before setting them aside. At the bottom, a copy of the man's credit card charges for the past year, as well as his recently-filed 1040 tax sheet, stared up at him, the former proving to be useless, unless Dean wanted to know that the man went to the hardware store more times than he could count, and quickly getting pushed away. Taking an interest in the latter, Dean narrowed his eyes to read the small font of the attached W-2, the document listing where the man worked and how much he had made in the previous year. Finding nothing odd about it, Dean got ready to nudge it aside before something triggered in his memory, something from their search of Bryan Jackson's apartment flashing in his mind: a bomber jacket lying on the floor of the living room with Bernstein Warehouse embroidered on the back.

"Hey, Sam, I think I found something," Dean muttered just loud enough for his brother to hear, hoping that his words wouldn't carry out through the doors, something about the woman they had had to bypass striking him as someone with bionic ears.

"What is it?" Sam asked, picking up his folder and carrying it with him over to where Dean stood across the room.

"I think I found our link between the victims," Dean said, noticing that Sam had been looking at the same thing his brother had moments before, the tax record displayed prominently on top and poised in a way that would perfectly make Dean's point. Dropping what he had been reading on top of what Sam had, Dean pointed at the similarity, Sam letting out a breath of surprise at the find.

"So they worked at the same place," Sam whispered. "Huh."

"Yep," Dean nodded. "And I'm willing to bet whatever this thing is is picking its victims that way. Hell, I'm willing to bet whatever this thing is works there, probably lying in wait just to find the perfect person to gank."

"What makes you say that?" Sam frowned.

Pulling out the credit card file, Dean placed it on top. "Check this out. The guy goes to the home improvement store almost every weekend. One week, he buys paint; the next, flowers. Seems to me the guy took pride in the way his house looked. And your guy? You remember all those beer cans lying around? All that rotten food in the fridge? It looked like the first vic did nothing more than ate and drank all day."

"Yeah, and?" Sam asked, furrowing his brows. "I'm not getting it."

"Everglade, seems like he was a visual person. His eyes go missing. Jackson, alcoholism in its finest form, loses a tongue. It seems to me like whatever's behind this is trying to send some sort of message," Dean said, hoping to drive his point home.

"What? Like a demon with a conscience?" Sam scoffed, a smirk on his lips.

"I don't know, maybe," Dean shrugged. "We have seen some wacky crap in the past year. This wouldn't be any different."

"Yeah, I know," Sam conceded, letting out a deep breath.

Suddenly, before either brother could say any more, the sound of high heels clattering against the laminate floor outside caused Sam and Dean to stand rigidly, Dean snapping his cell phone shut and Sam switching off his flashlight as soon as the noise reached their ears. Holding their breath, the brothers waited for it to pass, both praying that the door to HR1 wasn't about to open and reveal the woman from the front desk standing in the threshold. As soon as the sound was gone, both brothers relaxed, Dean looking around at the windows and finding that these seemed lower than the ones he had been inspecting before entering the building, one of them cracked open and appearing large enough for the Winchesters to slip out of.

Nodding toward it, Dean turned to Sam, a look of wide-eyed worry that they would be discovered crossing the latter's face for a moment before disappearing, Sam's gaze turning to match his older brother's as they both stared at their way out and away from the vulture at the entrance—the woman seeming to exude anxiety in a way that made Dean uncomfortable.

"What do you say we get out of here and head down to Bernstein to see what's what?" Dean asked, clapping a reassuring hand against Sam's shoulder.

Nodding, Sam bit his lip before answering, the prospect of leaving the County Clerk's Office in the dust causing his body to relax. "Yeah, sounds good."

Turning around to collect the file folders both he and his brother had retrieved, Dean placed them under his arm before following Sam to the window, his brother slipping head-first over the sill and somehow landing on his feet on the other side. Passing the information they had come there for through the gap between them, Dean tried to slip through as easily as Sam had, the height difference working against Dean and causing him to fall unceremoniously onto his back, his shoulder taking the brunt of the hit and stinging as he stood.

"You alright?" Sam asked, helping Dean to his feet.

Nodding, Dean massaged the ache with his hand before nodding. "I'm fine."

Bunching his jaw for a second, Sam lead their way through the dead bushes surrounding the building and toward the Ranger, the precaution Dean had taken beforehand paying off and actually placing their vehicle closer to them than expected. Hopping behind the wheel, Dean started the engine and glanced toward the glass doors of the building one last time, something about the woman that had been sitting there leaving him with the feeling that something about her was off. Shaking his head and clearing his thoughts away, Dean pulled out onto the road and away from the office complex, Sam reading him the address to their next destination before sitting back to enjoy the ride.