A/N n°1: Previously (because I left it so long—sorry!—that even I couldn't remember where this story was at):

Sam and Dean rolled into town and got a first-hand look at what happens when people do away with their self-restraint—including but not limited to: reckless driving, adultery, loss of limb, and Dean's ego getting a boost from all the attention. Their first afternoon in town harboured no clues or leads, but the next morning in a less-than-pleasant dinner, a highly fashionable police officer let slip some info that had the boys leaving for the station in a flash. Once there, they discovered a death certificate for a man who died right before the whole town went crazy—a potential patient zero.

Chapter Five:

Crime Doesn't Pay

James Aaron lived not far from downtown in a neighbourhood that had probably been in desperate need of renovations even before everyone and their mother turned into vandals. The rows of two-storey apartment buildings were covered in graffiti, their red brick walls chipped and crumbling. Tipped trash cans and broken furniture littered the street, while plastic bags and ripped paper fluttered with the breeze.

When Sam and Dean stepped out of the Impala and onto the curb in front of Aaron's place, they heard the mob in the distance, a few short blocks away, but this street was deserted, empty and quiet, which made breaking and entering a cakewalk. Dean kept a lookout—a pointless job, but better safe than sorry—while Sam fiddled with the locks on the front door of the apartment building. It didn't take long before Dean heard the telltale click and squeak of a lock disengaging and a door swinging open. He withdrew from the street and stepped under the building's shadowy overhang, giving his brother a thumbs-up as they walked in.

Yellowing paint peeled from the walls and fell onto the small, cracked tiles of the narrow hallway floor, amassing in flaky, little piles that mixed in with dirt, mud, and dust. Long light fixtures flickered and whined overhead, drawing attention to the wires and cables visible through the missing ceiling panels.

Dean took it all in with a derisive tilt of his brows. "Nice place."

Not so long ago, he wouldn't have batted an eye at the neglect dripping from this building, but after living in the bunker, he'd developed standards. That change hadn't come slow and steady. One night in a room of his own, and it was like a switch had flicked. He didn't know what to make of that, so he tried not to think of it at all.

Sam huffed an agreement, eyeing a brown stain leaking down the wall. "Apparently crime doesn't pay."

"Not if you're bad at it, it doesn't." Sam threw him a disapproving glare, but Dean only smiled. "What's the apartment number?"

"2B," he answered without having to check, and he glanced at the dent-covered elevator at the end of the hall. "Stairs?"

Dean took one look at the rusted steel, more orange than grey, and didn't argue. He pushed open a flimsy door to his right, the 'Stairs' sign so scratched up he could barely read it. It took only a second for him to regret the decision. He screwed up his nose at the smell of stale cigarette smoke, but Sam nudged him through before he could take another breath of fresh air. 'Filthy' didn't begin to describe the state of the stairwell, and Dean switched to breathing through his mouth as he made sure not to touch anything, keeping his hands firmly tucked away in his coat pockets.

"So how did this guy kick the bucket," he asked, trying to distract himself from the way his feet stuck to the floor with every step.

Sam didn't seem bothered by the smell or stickiness, although he did take the steps three at a time. "He jumped off a bridge."

Dean's breathing got heavier as he tried to keep up with his gargantuan brother. "Classy."

"According to the coroner's report, his blood alcohol content was 0.30."

A stitch pulled at the muscles in Dean's right side, and he drew a hand from his pocket to press it against the stabbing pain. "That a lot?"

Sam glanced down at him with a quirked brow, and Dean quickly schooled his features to hide his wince. "You're legally intoxicated at 0.08, and anything above 0.40 is potentially fatal. So, yeah, 0.30 is a lot."

"Big drinker then." He started rubbing the stitch again as soon as Sam turned away, cursing whatever fate or god had decided that making his little brother taller than him was at all fair. "He lived alone?"

"Yeah. No significant other, and no family in the area." They got to the landing of the second floor and stepped into the hallway. "The place should be clear."

The splintered wood of the door to apartment 2B made it difficult to read the number, but it was nowhere near as bad as 2A's, which had more holes than wood as though someone had gone at it with a hammer.

Sam picked the lock in under five seconds, and he and Dean stepped into an apartment that was smaller and messier than their motel room. Dean couldn't tell if the place had been ransacked or if James Aaron had been that much of a slob. Not an inch of the floor could be seen beneath the dirty clothes, old pizza boxes, and empty beer bottles that littered it; drawers and cupboards stood open, displaying the disorganised messes within; and an unclean odour clung to the air.

Dean didn't want to consider the state the rest of the place might be in, so as he weighed the probabilities, he said, "Right, I'll look around in here; you can do the bedroom and bathroom."

"No, no, no," said Sam, his wrinkled nose and curled lip smoothing out as he turned to face Dean. "We'll play for it."

He raised his left palm and laid his clenched fist atop it. Dean eyed the challenge, pressing his lips together as he tried to figure out his odds, but Sam didn't seem to be leaving him with an option. He copied his brother's stance and stared him down as they tapped their fists against their palms. One. Two. Three. Fuck.

Sam smirked, looking far too proud of himself. "Scissors, Dean? Really? I thought you were getting good at this game."

"I was trying to use reverse psychology," Dean muttered, casting a longing glance at the pigsty around him and an apprehensive one toward the closed door on the other side of the room.

Sam kept on cackling as he started searching through the main room while Dean let out a deep sigh and marched into the bedroom.

It was worse than he'd imagined.

He spent the entire time switching between breathing through his nose—which made him gag—and breathing through his mouth—which made him taste it. Five minutes in, and he felt like he'd need a Silkwood shower once he was done.

The only upside was that the place was small. Had it been clean and had James Aaron had any sense of organisation, Dean could have combed through the entire apartment on his own in under fifteen minutes. As it was, it took him and Sam half an hour between them.

"I've got nothing," said Dean as he left the bedroom. He breathed the fresher air of the living room and rubbed at his crawling skin.

Sam stood over the coffee table, the top of which was buried beneath a pile of flyers and takeout menus. "I might have something," he said, and he held up a small, pink leaflet, its pages crumpled and torn. "I found a balled-up receipt and this in the trash. It's a shop a few towns over, but look at this."

He pointed at a bunch of lines on the top left corner. It was the shop's logo, which was probably supposed to look like a pattern made out of rose petals, but from where Dean stood, looked more like drops of blood. There was something about the swirls and sharp angles that he recognised.

"Where do I know that from?"

"Rowena showed it to us after that incident a while back with the two sisters who were after the Black Grimoire. It's one of the base runes that's required in all love spells."

Now, that was a case Dean had been trying to forget. "Magic?"

Sam shook his head, frowning at the pink pages as though they held all the answers. "Not on its own." He dropped his hands to his side and shook his head, frown lines burrowing deep into his brow. "Maybe it's a coincidence. What's going on in this town has nothing to do with a love spell or else people wouldn't be driving like idiots and hurting themselves for the fun of it. The owner of this shop probably doesn't even realise what this symbol can do."

That was too much uncertainty for Dean's taste. "We've got a town losing its mind and a possible witch who's set up shop not far from here. Coincidence or not, I say we check it out."

With a sigh and a nod, Sam pocketed the receipt and the leaflet.

The brothers threw one last glance at the dump James Aaron had called home before stepping out. The hallways and stairwell looked downright sanitary after Aaron's apartment, and the street, no matter what state it was in, felt like a haven of cleanliness, but before Dean could enjoy it, he stopped dead in his tracks, jaw dropping and eyes widening to twice their usual size.

Sam's hand landed on his shoulder, but Dean barely felt it. "Dean, breathe."

A simple enough thing to do, but he couldn't, not with the shock coursing through his veins, weighing him down like lead and pressing against his heart.

"Dean—"

The air wooshed out of Dean's lungs, and he bent over double as he sucked in deep, shuddering breaths and shouted, "My car! Sam! My—Who did this? I'm gonna fucking kill them!"

He snapped up, gaze searching the street, but it was deserted—empty save for the Impala, which had paint splatters all over it and nonsense words and symbols drawn onto the bodywork. The windows had been smashed, and the hubcaps stolen from the wheels, leaving the car looking as broken and vandalised as its surroundings.

"Oh, Baby. What did they do to you?" Dean moaned, steps faltering as he stumbled across the sidewalk. He laid a tentative hand on the cold steel. "I'm sorry."

Sam edged into his line of sight, and although he looked suitably saddened, there was a twitch to his lips that suggested he was holding back a laugh. "You okay?"

"I hate this town," he growled out, taking back every good thing he'd ever said or thought about this place. With a shake of his head and one last glare up and down the street, he opened the car door, brushed the shards of glass from the seat, and slipped in. "Let's go."

A/N n°2: Sorry for making you wait so long for this chapter. I have no excuse other than procrastination, and then a schedule that got surprisingly busy just before and during the quarantine. I wanted to make sure that I didn't leave behind any plot holes, so I've finished writing the last few chapters, and all that's left to do now is edit them. I'll post a chapter a day (6 chapters left!), and if you spot anything that doesn't add up, let me know.

I hope everyone's staying safe, and if any of you or your loved ones have the virus, I hope you/they get better soon.