The sound of the door opening brought Dean out of the half-doze he'd been in for the last who knew how long. Like Vegas, there wasn't a clock in sight and they'd taken his watch. And this is why he never wore a belt or shoes with laces, because they'd have taken those too.

A smile curling up one corner of his lips, Dean arched a brow as the Sheriff kicked the door closed before dropping the heavy box he was carrying onto the table in front of Dean. From the look on the man's face, he definitely remembered Dean from the day before. The X-Files crack to the Marshals probably hadn't helped matters. Ah well, couldn't be helped.

Settling onto the corner of the table, the Sheriff sized Dean up for a long moment before speaking, looking every bit the small town good ole' boy he undoubtedly was. Probably used to getting his way, easily intimidating the prisoners in his care. As if. "So, you want to give us your real name?"

"I told you guys, it's Nugent. Ted Nugent." Sheriff Hardass didn't seem to find that as funny as Dean did. His loss, Dean was hilarious, if he did say so himself. And he did on a semi-regular basis. Hell, he'd even gotten Tinkerbell to laugh a time or two in the last day or so. Unwilling to let his thoughts turn in that direction, or to acknowledge the worry gnawing at his stomach, Dean forced his shit-eating grin a little brighter and focused on the man in front of him. Always a good idea to pay attention to the guy with the gun.

Crossing his arms, Sheriff Humorless leaned forward, looming over Dean as if trying to impress upon him the seriousness of the situation. "I'm not sure you realize just how much trouble you're in here, son."

"We talkin', like, misdemeanor kinda trouble or uh 'squeal like a pig' trouble?" Not that Dean was terribly worried, he'd been in infinitely worse situations, but it was always good to know exactly how much time he could be facing. Just in case. At least Sam had gotten away clean and Tink was clear ...he hoped. She had to have been released by now, right? Better not to think about it.

"You got the faces of ten missing persons' taped to your wall, along with a whole lot of Satanic mumbo-jumbo. Boy, you are officially a suspect—" Wait, what? How did that make any kind of sense. How was he a suspect? "—and you're just damn lucky that girl turned out to be legal or I'd have you on charges there, too. Not that I wouldn't be happy to try and make some stick anyhow."

Before Dean even realized he was going to say anything, his mouth opened and words popped out, sounding a hell of a lot more serious than he had just a minute ago when he was claiming to be Ted Nugent. "The girl, she's okay?" Not that he was concerned at all. Why'd he even ask? Of course she was. Why wouldn't she be? Unless…

"Boy, don't you worry about her none, you worry about you. I just told you you're a suspect in ten missing persons' cases."

Translation: 'We had nothing on her and had to let her go'. Releasing a breath, Dean relaxed just the tiniest bit, the tension in his shoulders easing. Well, easing as much as being handcuffed and interrogated by the County Sheriff on possible murder charges would allow.

Rolling his eyes to the sky, and not the one he actually kind of liked looking at, Dean slouched down in his seat. "That makes sense. 'Cause when the first one went missing in '82, I was three."

"I know you got partners. One of them's an older guy. Maybe he started the whole thing." Straightening, Sheriff Killjoy moved back around the table to the box he'd brought in. Popping the lid off, he tossed it onto a filing cabinet before digging out a thick leather-bound journal, dropping it abruptly onto the table in front of Dean. "So tell me, Dean. Is this his?"

And just like that, Dean didn't find the situation quite so funny anymore. John Winchester had spent the last twenty-two years of his life hunting the monsters hiding under the bed and everything he'd learned about every ghost, ghoul, and grotesque horror was in that book. And he never went anywhere without it.

"I thought that might be your name." Mistaking the source of Dean's sudden change in attitude, Sheriff Buzzkill smirked down at him and Dean was forced to remind himself that he was cuffed and unarmed. He'd fix that soon enough, but for now assaulting an officer would probably be a real bad idea. Would have been damn satisfying, though. He was really starting to dislike this guy. Reaching over, Sheriff Dickweed flipped open John's journal, revealing page upon page of photos, drawings, hand-written notes, diagrams… Dean was familiar with just about every picture and line; the thing had been the closest thing to his Bible growing up. The only thing he didn't recognize was the page Sheriff Jerkoff stopped on.

"What does this mean, 'Dean 35-111'?" Jabbing a thick finger against the page, Sheriff Backbirth tapped the paper, the single name and numbers circled repeatedly in thick, black marker. Flipping the book closed again, he smiled at Dean. And not a pleasant smile, either, but one of those 'I'm gonna enjoy watchin' you suffer, boy' kind of smiles. "See, I leafed through this thing and well, it is nine kinds of crazy. Now, I've got all day and we're gonna stay right here till you tell me exactly what the hell all of it means…"


McDonald's bag in one hand, Skye sipped the drink she held in the other, all paid for with the last of the cash Dean had given her to buy clothes. She hoped he hadn't expected his change back because that had never had a chance of happening. Not in any real hurry, she took her time in the crosswalk after the light changed, getting a honk from an impatient asshat and giving a middle finger in return. It wasn't even green yet, for fucks sake, dude could wait. Still, she should probably at least think about getting a move on, and not because of the jerk-off in the Volvo. Not that she was at all worried about Dean, locked up in a cell, or Sam who was God knew where.

Well, a single phone call should fix at least half of that. She hoped. With a l sigh, she made for the phonebooth down the block, the only one in town according to the cashier at Mickey D's. Well, other than the one directly in front of the police station, and going back that direction just didn't hold much appeal.

It wasn't long before she had the phone in hand, leaning back against the clear plexiglass as she punched in the numbers, the other end of the line picking up after a single ring. "Nine-one-one, what is your emergency..."


"I don't know how many times I gotta tell you, it's my high school locker combo." Hands on the table in front of him, Dean stubbornly kept the smartass smirk firmly on his lips. At this point he was more than ready to get gone, but Sheriff Has-No-Life hadn't been kidding when he'd say he had all day.

"We gonna do this all night, too?" Looking older than he had when this whole thing started, Sheriff Eat-Shit-And-Die rubbed tired eyes. He'd no doubt hoped to threaten and intimidate and cajole information out Dean long before now, but jokes on him, Skyler didn't call Dean a stubborn dick for nothing.

Before Dean could figure out an appropriately foul-mouthed reply, the door cracked open and a uniformed officer several years Sheriff Go-Fuck-Yourself's junior hesitantly stuck his head in. "Sir? We just got a 911, shot fired over at Whiteford Road." Flinching at the dour expression on his boss's face, the officer retreated, closing the door softly behind him.

With a sigh, the Sheriff stood and stretched before looking down at Dean. "Do you have to go to the bathroom?"

"...no."

"Good."


Tucking John's journal into the inner pocket of his jacket, Dean rubbed his wrist where the cold metal had been digging into it for the last several hours. The sun was starting to set and he'd been in there for way too fucking long already. Time to get gone and find Sam...and Skye too, of course. Somehow. For just a second, he considered just leaving without her. Maybe that stupid bitches curse had weakened by now? He could just disappear and she could hop a bus back to Louisiana and everyone could forget any of this had ever happened. And that was not guilt at the thought of leaving her stranded. No, that was just… hunger. Sure it was. Though to be fair, he was starving.

It took less than two minutes for Dean to pop the lock on the door using the same paperclip he'd used to slip the cuffs. Pressing his ear against the thin wood, he listened for any hint of anyone on the other side. Taking a deep breath and ignoring the hair prickling on the back of his neck, he eased it open when he heard nothing, cautiously peering out into the short hallway that ran along the back of the building.

Jericho was a tiny town, with an almost non-existent police force. With luck, most if not all of that police force was responding to the shooting. Maybe Dean would get really lucky and it'd turn into a standoff and they wouldn't discover him missing for hours.

Alright, first things first, where was the evidence lockup? No way he was leaving without his gun, at the very least, and another plus side of shitty small towns was that they never had the budget for decent security…