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Chapter Four:

An Officer in Uniform

Zip, nada, and zilch. That was what they found at the football field the next morning. It wouldn't have been so bad had they not gotten up before the crack of dawn to do the second sweep, freezing their asses off in the dark so that no one saw them and got suspicious. No one had been hanging around the football field yesterday, and Dean held the not-so-quiet certainty that no one would have gone there today either. But Sam had refused to budge, and given the state of him, Dean hadn't pushed all that hard either.

Beneath the too-bright lights of the diner, the bags under Sam's eyes stood out like bruises, dark purple against pale skin and bloodshot eyes. This case worked as a good enough distraction during the day, but at night there was nothing to stop his mind from dragging up the nightmares. Sam didn't say a word about it, though, just downed his fourth cup of coffee and attacked the case like it was his only mission in life.

"Ghost sickness?" he said. "Maybe we've got a Buruburu on our hands again. Some guy who partied hard before he bit it."

Dean shook his head and turned back to his hash browns and bacon. "Those things follow a pattern." He would know; that was one bad trip he wasn't likely to ever forget. "The same symptoms over and over. This place has people doing all kinds of stuff—no pattern in sight; otherwise, we might actually be getting somewhere."

Sam leaned back in the booth, running his hands through his hair with a groan as his gaze skipped over the interior of the diner. They'd found this place while looking for a motel last night. It sat at the edge of town, along the highway, half-hidden by a grove of trees. Not the best location for a diner, but it was a safe enough distance away from downtown that it had been mostly spared in terms of damage—which wasn't to say that the place wasn't in a sorry state, just that whatever was going on around here couldn't be blamed for it. The sticky linoleum floor looked like it hadn't been mopped since the '60s. The foam padding of the floor-mounted bar stools escaped through cracks in the synthetic leather. The flimsy wooden door to the bathroom had indistinguishable words and shapes drawn onto it in Sharpie pen. Similar drawings covered the long counter and the booth tables, half of which were lopsided and wobbly.

All in all, it wasn't the worst place Dean had ever eaten at. Far from it. And it had the added advantage of privacy.

It wasn't empty, but the other occupants were otherwise occupied. The middle-aged waitress, who smelled strongly of cheap whisky, kept disappearing into the kitchen, a silver flask clutched in her hand. The old guy in the corner rocked back and forth as he ordered one serving of French fries after the next until even Dean wondered how he could stomach it. The couple in the booth across from the boys' was making out like there was no tomorrow, looking like they were two minutes away from putting on a free show. No one paid the brothers any attention—except for the waitress who strode out with a pot of lukewarm coffee every ten minutes—so they didn't need to lower their voices as they talked about the things that went bump in the night.

"What about demons?" said Dean. "Like that case we worked years ago in Ohio. The half-dead factory town that turned into a haven for gamblers and drinkers after a couple of demons possessed a priest and the hot bartender."

Sam nodded, eyes distant as he remembered, and a crease formed between his eyebrows. "Right, they talked to some people, got the right businesses involved, and it made the townspeople succumb to their basic instincts."

"Kinda like what's happening here."

"But it took the demons months to cause that level of moral depravity. According to Doctor Idris, it happened overnight here."

Dean had to concede that point. Things had been quiet on the demon front of late, ever since Sam's showdown with Kip, the would-be King of Hell. How that guy had expected to rule anything with a name like that, Dean wasn't sure, but whatever his name, he was no longer on the playing field, and it seemed that without proper leadership, Hell wasn't all that big of a threat.

Grey morning light slowly seeped in through the streak-marked windows, adding a dull sheen to the greasy tables and floor. Outside, in the small, dirt parking lot, a cop car idled as the driver, dressed in full ceremonial uniform, chugged from a bottle wrapped in a paper bag, occasionally flipping on the car's lights and sirens for no obvious reason and listening to god-awful rap music loud enough for Dean to hear.

Dean shook his head and muttered, "What the hell is going on in this town?"

"I still like the witch theory," said Sam as he slipped his laptop from his bag. "No hex bag doesn't mean no witch, not if they're smart enough to cover their tracks."

"Only thing worse than a witch is a smart witch," said Dean, repeating a thought he'd had yesterday. "Should we call Rowena?"

"No, not unless we have to." A strained note slipped into his voice, and he kept his eyes glued to the computer screen as he added, "She deserves a break."

Dean drank down the dregs of his cold coffee, too in need of caffeine to be picky about where he got it from. "How's she doing?"

Rowena had left the bunker in a hurry after Jack had exorcised Michael out of her and destroyed him. Sam had tried to check her for injuries, but she'd brushed him off, packed her bag, and left, shaking like a leaf the entire time.

"You really need to ask?" said Sam, his voice quiet as he briefly glanced up from his laptop.

The muscles in Dean's shoulders tightened to the point where pain shot down his back as his mind flashed through memories from the moment he'd said 'yes' to Michael to everything that had followed. Playing ride-along with an archangel had felt like being stuck on a dinghy on top of Point Nemo during a tropical cyclone—deafening and uncontrollable and beyond any and all help. 'Dangerous' didn't begin to cover it; 'terrifying' didn't come close. It was beyond words, and it had hurt. Dean might have been Michael's perfect vessel, but just because he could sustain the archangel didn't mean that it hadn't felt like every cell in his body was being torn apart and soldered back together over and over again.

"Guess not," he said.

The waitress emerged from the kitchen and stopped off at each table to refill coffee cups. When she got to the boys, Dean leaned back on the bench to give her room and avoid any accidental sloshing. The vinyl squeaked beneath him as he shifted, and his hand touched a particularly sticky spot on the table. His lip curled as he drew his hand back, and he gingerly wiped it off on the lapels of his fed jacket. He managed a terse smile for the waitress as she frowned at him, but her furrowed brow turned into a scowl, and she walked away. Dean shrugged it off and kept rubbing his hand against the cheap fabric of his suit until the last of the gunk was gone. All the while, Sam kept his focus on the laptop as he downed his coffee in one, shoulders set in a tense line, and eyes distant and shuttered ever since Dean had brought up Rowena.

Dean heaved a sigh. In for a dime, in for a dollar. "Listen, Sam—"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"I get that, but—"

"No." He closed his laptop with enough force to make the table rattle and for Dean's coffee to spill over the rim of his cup. "They ran away from their home to be safe. Maggie, Jim, Corina, Jessie, Damien, and Oliver. They left everything behind so that they wouldn't die at the hands of angels. We promised to protect them from that. I promised them that they would be safe. They trusted me. And look where that got them."

"It wasn't your fault."

Sam scoffed and shook his head. A bright gleam covered his eyes as he looked out the window, and his jaw worked, teeth grinding hard enough that Dean was convinced he could hear them over the drone of the lights and the sloppy make-out sounds coming from the couple on the other side of the diner.

Dean leaned forward, but any impromptu speech was interrupted by the tinkling of the bell over the front door. He turned to see that the cop had left his cruiser and that although the man's top half was covered in his formal uniform, he'd picked out a pair of blue nylon leggings and bright orange leg-warmers to go with it. Dean stared and hid a snigger behind a cough. He turned to see Sam's reaction before remembering where their conversation had been at, and any trace of good humour vanished from his face.

The waitress leaned out through the kitchen door, and her sour expression softened slightly as she caught sight of the officer. "Hey, Pete."

"All right there, Connie?" asked Pete. He swayed as he walked to the counter like he was walking on the deck of a ship.

Connie shrugged and wiped her hands on her apron. Dean wasn't sure what good that would do seeing that he couldn't tell what colour the fabric had originally been beneath all the stains. "What can I get you?"

"Coffee to-go." Dean turned away from the conversation, ready to tune it out, but then Pete added, "Just got a call from dispatch."

Dean tilted his head to listen, and Sam slowly turned away from the window to do the same.

Pete didn't lower his voice as he said, "Maisie Green's been taken to the station."

Connie frowned at the name, hands stalling as she grabbed a lid for the carton coffee cup. "The school teacher?"

"That's the one. According to dispatch, she went after her husband with a meat tenderiser." As Connie handed Pete his coffee, he said, "How 'bout some doughnuts, too? I have a craving."

Sam and Dean turned to one another at the same time, and Dean said, "Marital spat?"

"In this town?" Sam shook his head, bagged his laptop, and slid out of the booth. "Come on."

The police station was in much the same state as the clinic had been. The waiting room held no receptionist at the information desk, but plenty of people crowded there demanding attention. Sam and Dean bypassed all of them as they ignored the 'No public allowed' signs. Every dark corner on the way to the upper floor seemed to hide someone jacking off or a couple working their way toward a higher base. In the office area, the desks and chairs had been moved to create a boxing ring, in the middle of which two beer-bellied officers wrestled as a large circle of colleagues cheered them on. The holding cells and drunk tanks were full to the brim of people shouting curses or laughing hysterically. And in the midst of all that chaos, some poor bastards kept trying to do their jobs.

"So Mrs Green attacked her husband because he never did the dishes?" Dean asked.

The young deputy nodded, his eyes wide and pleading. "It doesn't make any sense. I know Mrs Green. She was my teacher in elementary school. She and her husband've been married since before I was born, and they never fought—no reports of domestic abuse; no noise complaints from the neighbours."

Dean pocketed his pen and notepad. "Doesn't mean they weren't having troubles."

"But it's happening to everyone." Deputy Matt Warner's voice shook, and he fidgeted with his sleeve as he said, "This isn't…It isn't normal."

Dean noticed the look in Matt's eyes—the look that said that he knew that there was no rational answer behind what was going on here. Dean had seen that look so many times, and it always made his chest tighten. It was a look that said that he'd failed. He was supposed to protect these people from the things that went bump in the night, and that meant keeping them from ever finding out about the monsters and demons. Matt was scared. Doctor Sarah Idris was scared. Every person in this town who wasn't affected by whatever was going on was scared. And Dean didn't know how to fix it.

"Look," he said with all the confidence and authority he could muster. "My partner and I are here to help. We'll figure out what's going on, and we'll make it stop."

Matt nodded, but the worry didn't ease from his features, and his shoulders didn't drop. He'd peeked through the looking glass, and there was no coming back from that, not ever. Dean sighed, patted Matt on the arm, and turned on his heel, finding Sam, who waited for him in the dull grey stairwell.

"We need to figure out what's going on in this town," said Dean as he rubbed a hand over his face.

Sam nodded. "I agree, and I think I know where to look next."

Dean lowered his hand and raised his eyebrows. "Don't tell me someone here was actually helpful."

Sam scoffed and pulled a folded piece of paper from his coat pocket. "No. But while I was looking for Maisie Green's file—which there isn't one, by the way—I found this." He handed the sheet to Dean, who glanced down at it. It was a photocopy of a death certificate.

"James Aaron?" Dean read. "Who's James Aaron?"

"No one. A petty criminal. Got booked a few times for shoplifting, breaking and entering, theft… Nothing huge, but enough that he's spent the past twenty years in and out of jail."

"Okay…" Dean tried to connect the dots, but he was pretty sure there was nothing there to connect. "So?"

Sam pointed at the death certificate. "Look at the date. James Aaron died on Sunday, a few hours before all the crazy started. It could be nothing, or…"

"Or he could be patient zero." Dean glanced from the paper to his brother. "Got an address?"

A/N: The urge to write 'chips' instead of 'fries' was strong and hard to ignore, but I managed it. You might still find the odd British expression that slipped my notice, in which case: my apologies. I tried switching to American spelling but kept reverting to British, so I gave up on that.

Also, it's unsurprisingly difficult to write from Dean's point of view when I have only a slightly greater knowledge of cultural references than Cas did in the earlier seasons, but I promise that I'm doing my best. If you guys have any hints and tips for that (other than actually watching all those movies) I'm all ears.

I hope you're all still enjoying this story! I'm going to take a little break from writing it while I deal with school, but I'll get back to posting chapters by the end of April.