AN: Okay, last chapter was a bit on the crappy side, and I apologize. In fact, I probably should have started with this chapter. But, such is life. Thanks to all of my reviewers.
Chapter 2: The Bust
Just four miles down the road from the motel, someone else was having a nightmare. The only problem was, the person having the nightmare was awake.
Officer Larson eased the patrol car to a stop in front of 1522 Morris Court and shivered. The revolving red and blue lights atop the cruiser cast dancing, twisting shadows across the front of the dilapidated house and surrounding trees. Well, the word 'trees' might suggest that the yard was pleasantly landscaped, but there was no yard. Straight off the front porch was nothing but forest, a scraggly collection of hardwoods with the occasional evergreen thrown in for good measure.
"What's wrong, you skeerd?" Larson's partner chuckled from the passenger seat.
Larson didn't even pretend to be brave about the whole situation. He licked his lips nervously and peered through the windshield at the rusted out station wagon that occupied what was supposed to be the front lawn. "It's just, you know, this is the Mayfield place."
His younger partner raised his eyebrows as if to say "So what".
"Have you never been out here?" Larson asked.
"No."
Larson pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped away the sweat that had formed on his brow. "Old Lady Mayfield lives here with her only grandson."
"That would be our suspect, Curtis Mayfield," his partner had a grip on the door handle and was gathering himself to exit the cruiser.
"Wait!" Larson hissed. "We can't just barge in there, we need to wait on the Sheriff."
His partner barked a laugh and opened the door. "Well, I'm going in there to arrest the kid, you can stay out here. That is, if you're yellow."
Larson scowled, ashamed at himself for his behavior, but refusing to give in. "Harris, do you know why we're arresting him?"
"No."
"Because he's behind all of those murders, jackass! He sicced his dogs on all those poor people."
"Dogs?"
In response, one of the mentioned dogs let out a bone-chilling howl and was joined by several more.
"Oh Jeez!" Harris leapt back into the cruiser and slammed the door as five nondescript hunting dogs came charging around the junker station wagon. The two officers could hear the animals snuffling around the outside of the car, no doubt smearing the clean car with drool.
Larson had a rather satisfied smirk on his face. "I told you we should wait for back-up."
"Why?" Harris huffed, slightly embarrassed. "Because you're scared shit-less of dogs?"
"Among other things," Larson muttered as he picked up the radio to call for animal control.
-O-
The next morning, Sam was the first to wake. He blinked the sleep from his eyes, marveling at the fact that he'd actually been able to sleep, and rolled over to look across at the other bed.
Dean was out cold, leaning back against the headboard, right leg still hanging off of the mattress, and held a sleeping Emily loosely in his arms. Sam sighed sadly, reminded suddenly of Jessica. God how he missed her. He could remember holding her, waking up beside her on a lazy Sunday morning…
He wiped his eyes and shoved off the covers. Dean could sleep the day away, denying anything he felt for the girl he was cradling, but Sam had work to do.
Moving as quietly as possible, Sam managed a quick shower and change without waking his counterparts and slipped out of the motel room. The morning was cold for early November and he found himself subconsciously pulling his Carhartt jacket closed. Deciding that coffee was not only a good way to warm up, but also his best bet on prying info out of the locals, Sam crossed the street to Carrie's; a diner that looked suspiciously like the Waffle House they had stopped at the night before.
Sam pushed through the door of the small diner and was pleasantly surprised at how much the interior differed from Waffle House. Sure there was a long bar and the walls were lined with booths, but the stools and seats were upholstered with bright red vinyl and the tabletops were a shiny black and trimmed in chrome. He carefully crossed the black and white floor tiles, maneuvering in between the throng of patrons, and took a seat at the bar. Like Waffle House, the food preparation area was directly behind the bar and Sam could see half a dozen employees in fifties style uniforms bustling about. One rather plump woman with her hair pulled back in a bun and topped with a hairnet was waving her arms animatedly and calling instructions to the others.
"Jimmy! I need more plates, son. Teresa, they need more coffee at table three!"
That must be Carrie Sam thought and found that he was correct when she hustled up to him and he caught a glimpse of her nametag.
"What can I getcha', baby cakes?" she asked in a hurry, slapping a napkin and menu on the bar in front of him.
Sam was hoping to ask Carrie about the so-called dog attacks. In such a small town, he knew that everyone would have not only heard about the incidents but formed a very particular opinion about them. "Actually, Ma'am…" he began.
"Look, I don't got all day honey," she put a hand on a very round hip and fixed him with a pointed stare.
"Oh, um, just gimme three coffees to go, please," he tried to hide his disappointment.
Carrie let out a huge production of a sigh and rolled her eyes skywards. "I just put on a new pot, it'll be about fifteen minutes."
"That's fine," Sam assured and was relieved when the diner Nazi bustled off, shouting orders to her staff. He glanced hopefully at the rack that no-doubt held newspapers on a regular basis and found it empty. He poked out his lower lip in the unconscious, bored expression he'd made since he was a child and swiveled the stool around to face the window that wrapped around the restaurant. He leaned back and propped his elbows on the counter behind him and soaked in the magic that was a small town.
The diner was busy: full of construction workers and dentists and lawyers and every other type of professional in Hartsburg. But something seemed a little odd to Sam. There was a buzz to the room, electricity that seemed to touch everyone. All of the patrons were talking animatedly with one another about something they found very exciting.
While it was true that Sam had acquired the Winchester talent for bullshitting his way into any conversation, he knew that yokels were sometimes touchy about strangers. He would have to select his targets carefully. Then he spotted two girls seated in the booth directly across from him chatting atninety miles a minute. They looked to be high school age, both were brunette, but the girl on the right had shocking streaks of blonde and fuscia mixed into her short do.
Sam ran a hand through his own hair, checking that his shaggy look was purposefully messy, not 'just woke up' messy, and levered up from the stool. He waited until he was standing right at the highlighted girl's shoulder before clearing his throat lightly. "Hey there, ladies. Mind if I join you?"
Both girls snapped their heads around to look at him and the startled expressions quickly melted into warm smiles. "Sure," Highlights scooted over and motioned for him to sit.
"Thanks, I'm Sam," he offered as he folded his lanky frame into the booth. He flashed an easy smile that Dean would have been proud of and held out his hand.
Each girl shook his hand in turn and identified themselves as Shannon, the one with the highlights, and Lisa. "So," Shannon began with a bat of her eyelashes. "Are you new around here?"
"Well, kinda. I'm a grad student from Penn State. A couple of my classmates and I are researching animal behavior," he rattled without a hitch, inwardly wincing at how easy he found it to lie.
"Oh, how interesting," Lisa gushed, clasping her hands beneath her chin. She had that look on her face, the one most teenage girls reserved for their boy band idol and Sam could feel the blush creeping up from his shirt collar.
"So what's there to research here in Hartsburg?" Shannon asked, just barely restraining her own goo-goo eyes for the newcomer. "I mean, this place is so boring."
"Well," Sam tugged a little at his collar, wishing he had his brother's suave reflexes with women. "We're actually looking into these mysterious dog attacks. They were all over the news and we were thinking wolves, maybe…"
"Oh! Oh!" Lisa began hopping up and down in her seat and waving her hands. "It was Curt! Curt Mayfield," she exclaimed.
Shannon rolled her eyes at her friend's outburst. "What she means is that Curt Mayfield set his hunting dogs loose on all of those poor people."
"How do you know," Sam asked doubtfully. He felt almost positive that there was no way regular dogs killed the residents of Hartsburg.
Shannon smiled smugly. "My Daddy is the sheriff. They busted Curt last night, took him to jail and everything."
"Yeah," Lisa chimed in. "I hear his granny went nuts when the cops put him in handcuffs."
"What happened to his dogs?" Sam asked.
"Animal control picked 'em up. They're gonna kill all of them," Shannon wrinkled her nose distastefully. "I don't know why they didn't do it years ago."
Sam rubbed a hand across his chin, giving himself a moment to collect his thoughts. He needed to find this poor Curt kid, see if he knew anything about the truth.
"Kid! Your joe's ready!" Carrie's shrill voice echoed across the small restaurant and Sam was glad for the opportunity to excuse himself.
"Well, it was nice meeting you," he told Shannon and Lisa, only partially meaning it.
They grinned at him, Lisa giving him that look of complete adoration again and he hurried to collect his coffee.
"Bye, Sam," Shannon called with a little wave.
Sam hoped he didn't look too eager to escape as he balanced the Styrofoam cups and pushed back through the door. He decided that this was the last time he let Dean sleep late.