What's this? Another feature chapter? It can't be! We just had one! Seems like we had one only scant months ago!

... real work rules my life, unfortunately. Sorry all. Trying.

One of the things I struggle with is plot vs. tension. Everyone has to get from point A to point B. Along the way they have to learn things. Things about the plot, things about each other… things about themselves. It's like A River Runs Through It, except Robert Redford will play none of these people. Was he in that movie? Also, isn't he dead? So for various reasons, Robert Redford will not be appearing in this chapter. For more information, contact his agent.

Anyway, I'm one of those that need to have things clean and complete. That doesn't mean they will be, but it's one of my manias. I have no continuity editors and thirty projects on the go. So, you know, it sucks. I want all the corners to be painted in nice and neat and hopefully this doesn't come at the expense of pace and readability. So there's another fear to add to the list. How the modern life coddles us.

Interestingly, one reader called the opening scene here. This is a reminder to me to beef up the anti-witchery spells around the house; salt in the corners, etc etc. I can see you there, gypsy. You cannot work your spells on me.

Why is Borat funny? Should I feel bad about laughing at it? I mean, it's shock comedy, yes? So…

So you the reader may be asking: "Hey GP72 – what the hell is going on here anyway? I mean, what's this all about?" And my legal team confirms that we have a non-binding answer for this. Essentially, the FBI yuppie crew and the lads from Work Warehouse are going to be dealing with a monster of the week situation a little outside their usual pay bracket. It's a mystery monster until someone pieces it all together, which they will, and whom I will have to hate because it's definitely going to be before the big reveal. Oh well. Clues clues.

And now, back to our show.

Chapter 5: Strike Two

'So if I were you boys, I'd be damn careful now,' the gravelly voice drawled on the other end of the line. 'The feds don't like you and that business in Baltimore didn't help any, whether you were on the right side of it or not: any number of state-line charges on you two knuckleheads already.' A pause for punctuation. 'You get me?'

Sam did, very clearly. 'Don't worry, Bobby. We'll be careful.'

There was a sigh. 'Tell that brother of yours that he's not always goin' to be able to walk or talk his way out of trouble… Look, just don't do anything stupid like rob a federal bank, okay?'

Sam snorted. 'Of course not.'

A pause and a muttered 'Idjits.'

The line went dead and Sam folded the phone away. He put down a fiver for the gum, got his change – the cashier smiled at him, young and blonde and nascent gothy, eyes bright. He smiled back, and slowly went back to the table where Dean was plowing his way through a thick tuna sandwich. Dean was a red meat kind of man, but lately his dietary range had been widening, sampling this and that, as if touching on things known but rarely troubled, discovering new old ground in the attic of his experience. Maybe tomorrow it would be a salad. 'You were right, that was a real FBI team,' Dean said grimly as he sat down.

They were in the Stop-N-Go minimart/corner store at the scenic intersection of Main and Drag. The town's four corners had a pleasant look: old slate grey granite and glass store-fronts with red-brick residences above and wrought-iron stairways in back. There was a formal apothecary, a bank outlet, a little clothing store, a lawyer's office, two restaurants and a crafts store among various small outlets. The Stop-N-Go doubled as the post office. A little west was the town's police station in a separate building with a small cruiser lot behind it and further still, nearer the highway, the proper supermarket. Got Milk? an aged sign near the roadway asked.

It was late afternoon and they'd used the time to eat, and to be a little cagey with their schedule. Dean had given the grey sedan a hard look as it pulled up, and once again his instincts had been right. Dean's confidence grated on Sam's nerves a little, worsened by his farmer's-thumb kind of natural prognostication skills. Dean nodded sagely, or as sagely as he could be through a mouthful of tuna and mayo. 'Feds. So slow, yet so hot. You see that redhead?' he mumbled, spraying bread crumbs.

Sam swept off his side of the table. 'Bobby says he dropped the hammer on them pretty good but we should get moving.' He checked his watch. 'Think they're out of the Dryer place by now?'

Dean nodded, still chewing. 'Anything?' He jerked his head at the counter.

'No. Miranda worked hours here in the day, nights Fridays, one clerk at a time. Quiet, polite. No violent interactions reported, no unusual customers, no strange noises or smells, regular deliveries Tuesday. A little restocking, a little casual shoplifting and beer proxy from the local kids, a few drunks on the weekends but nothing special.'

'Her husband?'

'Never been here, or at least not after the divorce. Never even comes back to town, I hear.' He looked back at the pretty countergirl, who let her eyes slip up to meet his own, blushed, and went into the back room on the excuse of looking for something. '

Dean nodded, wiping his face. 'So – any evidence of little green men with death rays, Sammie?' He held up a finger and pointed it at Sam. 'Maybe they need some lube for their probes. We should check with the pharmacy.'

'And you could refill your Veltrex prescription while we're there,' Sam considered.

'Or get your acne cleared up.' Dean was working his jaws as if trying to extricate a particularly tenacious bit of lettuce. He dug a finger into his teeth without further preamble; Sam tried to disassociate himself from Dean's presence by body language alone. 'Face it, Sammie. Your Mars Needs Middle-Aged Women theme just ain't playing. ET is not here, and he doesn't need a quarter to phone home.'

Sam grit his teeth. 'Sam. And I never said it was for sure, just… maybe something wasn't right.'

'Sure. Something, any old thing. Something like lights in the sky and cornholed cattle, Sammie,' Dean grunted.

'Whatever it is, we've got a definite something now.'

'I agree. But I'm gonna remember this whole aliens thing next time you start planning a road trip.'

There was a commotion at the front counter; they looked that way. ' – no, Mr. Biggs, we don't have the results from the Lotto in yet,' the counter girl was saying, blonde ponytail waggling. An old man was there, hair wild and white, wearing old workboots and a filthy pair of coveralls. He clutched a crumpled Lotto ticket.

'We don't get the numbers until tomorrow,' she told him. 'You could always check them on-line.' But, recognizing her automatic error, she wilted the moment the words came out.

'Online,' the old man spat as if it were a curse, smacking a fist on the counter. 'Ah don't want online. Ah want mah numbers now!'

The girl looked distraught and helpless. Sam cleared his throat noisily. The old man caught, turned a grizzled head in Sam's direction. Sam fixed him with an icy scowl and peeled back the jacket of the coat to show the man his – admittedly fake – FBI ID hanging on the outside wallet flap of his inner coat pocket. The old man's eyes popped a little and his mouth worked wordlessly before he wrenched himself away from the counter and stormed out, letting the door bang shut. The girl sighed at Sam with relief and gratitude. Sam gave her a professional nod and smile, and then got a little annoyed with himself for imitating Dean.

'Strange,' said Dean, watching the old man go. 'That's strange.'

Sam took his eyes off the girl to follow Dean's gaze out the door. 'That guy? I guess. Just seems a bit grumpy.'

'Yeah. Or suspicious,' Dean mused, curling his lower lip, tapping his chin with one finger.

'Maybe in a Scooby Doo kind of way,' Sam scorned.

Dean shrugged and crumpled the sandwich wrapper into a ball, lobbing it into a nearby garbage can. 'Last time I eat foreign.' The TV mounted in the upper corner of the Stop-N-Go caught his eye as they got up. 'Ever see this Dr. Sexy, MD before?'

'What?' Sam turned to look at the screen. It was some… doctor show. A Hollywood-fancy man was pontificating on something to an outrageously hot nurse while she gazed at him adoringly. 'No,' Sam snorted. 'You?'

'Mm,' said Dean neutrally as they left.

Dean's thumbs drummed the hot steering wheel to the radio's beat as houses and trees flew by the window like elongate blurs. 'Here's the plan. We need feet on the ground. You know, roll this thing over, find out what's where and why. But we should steer clear of the Feds and their slow-footed hotness. So we hit the Dryer place now, find out which search the Feds are doing – Hearns or Dryer – and go to the other one tonight. Eh? Eh?' Dean grinned proudly.

'Brilliant, Moriarty.'

'Then, after the search, we give Dryer's place a proper checkup: EMF, WMD, everything, nice and undisturbed. I hate all this tiptoeing around.'

'Checkup?'

'… what?'

'Nothing.' He hesitated. 'Okay, something. You're acting a bit odd. I mean, like even for you. You made Old Man Withers back there in the corner store, a tuna sandwich and now you're into medical dramas.'

'So? A man can change a little, Sammie.'

'Sam. It's just… I dunno, it's not like you. Are – are you sure you're feeling okay?'

Dean opened his mouth to respond, then put a fist over his face and let out another half-suppressed belch. 'Oof. Not after that tuna, I have to tell you. I'd crack the window if I were you.'

They arrived on Fair Lane about 5 PM. The search was still in progress, although most of the police had departed; dinner before the search, probably. The sky was darkening as it went on its lazy way towards evening, shadows growing in the woods behind the house.

There was no sign of the gray sedan. Sam breathed a little easier.

The driveway was empty: Dryer's car had been removed, presumably to check for trace. There was a redheaded stunner of a cop leaning against a police cruiser in front of the place. Dean waggled his eyebrows at Sam and straightened his tie. 'I'll do the talking. You just emote, or whatever the hell they taught you at that Fame high school.'

He sprang out of the car as Sam flipped him the bird, warming up his best Federal face as he strolled towards the stationary cruiser and stationary redhead. 'Afternoon, deputy,' he said to her, showing bright white teeth.

She glanced at him, then straightened up and touched the brim of her hat. 'Officer Barnes, Agent – '

'Stanley,' Dean said in his most salubrious professional voice. 'Dean Stanley. Just call me Dean. This is Agent Sam Thayer.' Sam nodded as he came up.

She nodded. 'Agents. I'm Officer Cecilia Barnes. You're here to see the crime scene, I expect. It's right this way.' She turned and without further comment headed up the driveway.

Sam turned to smirk at Dean. Dean shrugged. They followed.

It was a real show home of a place; used, but kept in a way meant as a metaphorical address of the concept of 'better than new': fresh pillows, spotless surfaces, paintings and furnishings just so, aside of course from the rank coppery stink of lots and lots of dried blood, and the countersmells of the aerosols used to try and dampen the reek of death. 'Suburban commando,' Dean grunted to Sam. 'Aerates his lawn twice a year. Bills paid, on time, every time. Classic shit don't stink setup.'

'You want the general tour?' Barnes asked them. There was a redness in her eyes and an inexplicable hard tilt to her brows.

'No thanks,' said Sam just as Dean answered 'Yes, we'd love to.' And Dean smiled his big smile at Officer Barnes. Sam rolled his eyes and sidled away as Dean beamed at Barnes and said 'After you, Officer.'

There was a window into the backyard there that looked out into the darkening woods. Distracted, Sam stared that way for a while. Suddenly there was a burst of movement as a cloud of birds unexpectedly exploded skyward, crying wildly. Sam blinked, then shook his head. He could see there was nothing there; he was imagining things. Not a good habit.

Sam went through the kitchen towards the back "L" of the living room. The thick, darkening black-red stain of ichor spread in front of the sliding door could not be missed, a few loose drips and drops scattered around it. It was old and hot in the warm weather outside and had congealed to a thick, loose dark mat. There was a buzz of flies in the air – unsurprising in the heat, but he could not see them.

Sam had seen blood before – plenty of it by now – but every time before had been vicious, animalistic, primal: wild courses in crimson, over every surface and everything as something mad and hungry rent and devoured. This was… precise, placed: like a hunter that brings down its prey with a single shot just before the shoulder blades. And yet, the mark of hatred still hung in the air like a scent. How could it be otherwise? A man had been bled to death here. And it was to death, Sam knew: there was blood enough there to be the end of a man, even a man the size of a linebacker. Jacob Dryer had been such a man. Wherever he was now, he was dead. 'Right here,' Sam muttered, scanning the room. 'Everything was right here.'

Sam looked out the door through the hazy plastic. Dryer had got off four shots; Sam could see the impact marks, the furthest one out in the shed wall, a black spackle just visible in the late afternoon light. Then someone or something had got him. Whatever it was, whatever it had been, it had killed him outright, with a single blow, sure as sure. Something… sharp. Obviously. There was no loose spattering from a bludgeoning, no explosive impact marks from a gunshot, just this puddle of gore. The throat, maybe. But that would spray. And that hadn't happened here. Sam looked down, thinking. The gut. Under the rib cage. He nodded slowly. It was coming together. And then where did you go, Jacob Dryer? And how did a man with a shotgun miss his target? Whatever had killed him had been at close range, and Dryer's shotgun had still had shells in it when he'd been killed; no three-shell limit in this state, thank you very much Uncle Sam. That suggested two or three things, generally. Sam tested the first.

Sam reached into his other coat pocket, produced the small portable EMF detector and flipped it on. 'Okay, Scotty,' he said quietly. 'Beam me up some signal.'

But there was nothing – the table, the door, the blood, all clean. Nothing at all. He even prodded it out the plastic-sheeted door. Nothing. Frowning, he packed the device away. A fly buzzed at his face and he swiped at it. No EMF. None here, none with Miranda Hearns. That was two strikes against. Spooky – sure. But not a spook. Probably.

'What was that thing?' a voice demanded suddenly from behind; Sam whirled. It was a thin, balding cop with sharp suspicious eyes. Blasted by a sharp panic, Sam wondered how much he'd seen. 'A – cellphone tracer,' he said as quickly and calmly as he could manage. 'Thought maybe Dryer… might have his cell on. Or maybe dropped it as he was being taken away, fell out of his pocket, something. Sorry. You startled me. I'm Agent Thayer. The Denver office sent us down.' And he extended his hand.

'Albright,' the smaller man introduced himself, taking it a little reluctantly, Sam thought. 'Cellphone tracer?' His eyes were interrogating Sam's pocket.

Sam was calming rapidly. He'd had a lot of training at this too, recently: improvisation, natural flow, redirection. That last thing was the most effective tool: skip the fact of the thing, talk up the shortcomings, redirect, redirect, redirect. It was like an exercise in Psych101 on evasive behaviours, the slippery lubrication of the forebrain on sociality. He held a hand halfway up; the near-defense, the half-apologetic. 'I know, I know, it's a long shot, but I thought maybe if it was in his pocket, maybe switched it on during the struggle… maybe it would tell us where he ended up, or point us in some direction.' He sighed. 'No luck. I checked Miranda Hearns' place too. Nothing. Has anyone actually accounted for their cellphones?'

Albright nodded. The suspicious look hadn't left him. 'Yeah. All secured.'

'No… additional lines?' Sam asked, trying to look like he was grasping at a particularly unfortunate straw.

'No. No, not that I know of. What'd you say your name was again?'

'Thayer.' Sam turned to the blood marks. 'And you guys sampled all this?' The blood stain was hard, black crimson, with a kind of grayish tinge around the edge.

'Yes, all sampled, loose points, everything. Cellphone signal detector?'

The cop was like a dog with a bone. 'I'll send you the eBay link.' Sam knelt near the edge of the pool. 'Footprints?'

'Not really.'

Sam wondered if they'd even checked. He scanned the area again. There was a little on the base of the sliding door, and even a few drips on the patio. 'It's like… there was a single wound. Like he didn't have a chance to fight back, or do anything. No signs of a real struggle.'

Albright adjusted his belt. 'He fired off a shotgun four times. I'd call that a struggle.'

'No physical struggle.'

'How do you know that?'

Because I'm becoming something of an expert in death, Sam wanted to say, but didn't. 'No real blood spatter around this one site – some runoff, maybe, but everything is right… here.'

'That's what the other FBI guy said. Mulder. That's exactly what he said.'

Sam nodded. 'Yeah. You were the first on the scene, right? You mind if I ask you a couple other questions.'

'Sure.'

Sam produced a little flip notebook. Dean had seen them on TV and was convinced it was a key element to the appearance of any FBI agent: ninety-nine cents each at the Dollar Barn. Sam had thrown away the pink one Dean had got him, of course. 'Any weird smells on site? Or even near it?

'Sulphur. Like… rotten eggs?' Albright asked incredulously.

Sam chuckled. 'Yeah. There were a couple possible suspects from the other round of disappearances; one of them actually worked at a sulphur mill. Takes all kinds, I guess.'

'Well, I don't remember anything like that.' Albright looked a little disturbed.

'How about strange animal attacks or signs?'

'No, nothing like that either.'

That was enough. Albright was taking a funny tack on Sam's line, and it was time to cut this round short. 'Sorry about the odd questions. Just trying to exclude other causes. Did Mr. Dryer have any enemies or any longstanding grudges in town?'

Sam went through the rota of conventional questions for conventional solutions, and got conventional answers. No enemies, no grudges, no debts. Cleared his bill, paid his share, donated to charity, no real arguments, trimmed his hedge and mowed his lawn regularly. Sam stopped taking notes halfway through. It amazed him how, not so long after the degree, the ordinary and mundane could be so… mundane. How had law seemed better or more interesting than this? Not that this was sport. He was doing a work here. He was doing the work. This was more dire, more important. There were lives in this: here, Miranda Hearns and Jacob Dryer… and whoever was doing this, and why. It was a tapestry of lives and he must find the loose improper thread that could be pulled out and destroyed.

Albright was finishing. '… coached the girls' softball, even. Can't think who would do this to him. Can't think why.'

Sam nodded and tucked away the notebook. 'I understand. Our position is… well, I shouldn't say, but we're looking at a few suspects from outside the community. That's our most likely line.' He nodded as if to say your community is still clean, still pure. Sam hesitated. 'There's one thing I'd like to follow up with you. Did Mr. Dryer have any interactions with Tom Hearns.'

Albright looked at Sam and sighed. 'I was wondering when this would come up. Look, I knew both these guys, and they knew each other. Okay? And – one cop to another – it's got nothing to do with Tom. I'm telling you. It's not him, and it's got nothing to do with him. They – it's just not something that Tom could ever do to Jacob, not – ' a little hitch there ' – something he could do. Not to a friend like Jacob. Ever.' Albright was firm, red-faced.

Sam considered. 'I completely understand, Officer Albright,' Sam said in his assured, soothing voice. 'I know what your community is going through. We're not looking to pin this to any particular individual for the sake of closing a case. We're just here to help catch whoever did this.' He gave his best wan smile and as he did his eyes fell on the partially crushed aluminum track of the door.

Albright saw him staring. 'We think it was done with some kind of machine or cart, maybe. Something heavy.' Albright sniffed and rubbed his nose. 'Not sure how it fits in, but it must have happened when Jacob was – when the murder took place. No one saw anything like that until I came here that Friday. Maybe people moving things out of the house, something we didn't find.' The officer blew out a heavy breath, as if not wanting to think what complications that might mean for the case, and for Jacob Dryer's memory.

June the 15th, Sam reminded himself. The door track had been heavily flattened in a kind of block or pattern about five, five and a half inches wide, that Sam just couldn't put his finger on. But it sure as hell didn't look like a do-it-yourself accident. What was it? It itched at the back of his mind, elusive but insistent.

Dean came back about then. 'Rest of the house is clear, so far as I can tell. Normal, nothing out of order. All looks good.' Sam grunted, still looking at the damaged door track. 'So what do you figure happened?' he said with a glance over his shoulder at Albright, who moved off to let them talk semi-privately.

'Well, four shells fired. Someone or something he saw, out there.' They looked out to the manicured lawn and it was as though there was an unexpected chill in the air. 'And then this. Whatever it was killed him right here. He was a Marine. Why couldn't shoot his attacker? Why couldn't he hit him right here? He's packing a 12-gauge. He can't hit someone right in front of his own back door?'

'Solid slug, not pellets, but still: he fires a shot in this tight opening, he's going to hit something,' Dean agreed.

'Well, he didn't.' Sam scratched his chin.

'So it's a spook, obviously. If he wasn't packing rock salt, he was gonna be out of luck. Full metal jacket's no good on ghosts. Fires a shot, goes right through.'

'No EMF, Dean,' Sam disagreed. 'I checked. No residual trace even. Nothing.'

Dean frowned. 'Cold spots, goofer dust, loose piles of skin?' Dean cast his eyes around the room. 'A misplaced sofa cushion?'

'No. You?'

Dean sniffed. 'Nada. Barnes was kind of a cold fish too.' He raised his eyebrows and put his fingers up to make a V over his mouth again through which he flapped his tongue.

'Okay, okay. No one needs to see that,' Sam muttered, looking around with embarrassment.

'Hey, I'm not judging.'

'You're always judging.'

'Anyway – all right, I see what you're saying. Something just doesn't match up. There's an angle we're missing. So we come back later on and recheck the whole place properly. It just needs a better look, undisturbed.' He glanced back at the deputy, who was far enough away that he couldn't overhear.

Something about the whole thing was wrong, but Sam didn't want to fight about it right then. 'I can call up the old county records, maybe, or go check them out from town hall. All the peripheral weird stuff: unavenged murders, Indian burial grounds, old ponds, et cetera.'

'Yeah that et cetera's gettin' longer every month,' Dean grunted. 'Should check out Dryer and Hearns too, see if there's any weird in their background. Something that'd summon something unhealthy.'

'Right.'

On an impulse, Dean went to the fridge and, after suitable preparation, yanked it open.

There was nothing special. Milk, yogurt, leftovers carefully boxed in plastic, a few fruit drinks, a medley of vegetables. Nothing remarkable in any way. 'Tidy little shotguneer, weren't we?' Dean mused, scratching his ear.

'What do you think's in the fridge?' Officer Albright asked, eying them.

'Well, we have to check everything, Officer – ?' Dean said officiously, slamming the fridge door while Sam rolled his eyes, facing away so the cop couldn't see.

'Albright. And that includes the fridge?'

Dean's brow crinkled and he walked up to the cop, sweeping back his coat edges theatrically. 'You wouldn't believe the things we've found in fridges,' he intimated in a gravelly voice.

Albright nodded sardonically. 'I bet not. You two all done here?'

'For now, officer. For now.' Dean turned theatrically to Sam. 'Agent Thayer?'

'Right,' said Sam, feeling himself colouring red.

They went out onto the porch. There were a few marks tabbed where blood had been found but no other real sign. 'So from here…'

'Yeah,' Sam answered. 'The woods.'

It was the only place to go. They stared into those sparse, thin trees and they looked more mysterious now, particularly as the light was coming down in the later afternoon, giving them long, eerie shadows. 'I give you this, Sammy: not a lot of ghosts in the woods. Maybe it's not.'

'Yeah, the big puddle of blood had me thinking the same thing.' Sam was feeling around the porch with his feet.

'What?'

Sam felt about again. 'Couple boards aren't fit right.'

'If we give up this hunting ghosts gig, maybe we could start up as home renovators.'

'Winchester Woodworking.'

Dean snapped his fingers. 'Copyright.'

'I'd be in the business with you, idiot.'

'Yeah, but I'm the president.'

'Fine. Then I'm the CEO.'

'The what?'

Sam sighed as they went down onto the grass. 'This search tonight is going to be weird.'

'Yeah, that Barnes cop was saying they were going to bring guns. Taking this thing way seriously, Sammy.'

'Sam. They think there's a killer out there, and there is. We'll bring our gear, just in case.'

'Nine mils solid, shotgun salt? Hunting knives for close.'

'Sounds good.' They were at the edge of the woods now. Sam was peering in. 'Does get a bit thicker in there, doesn't it?' He tugged at his collar. Away from the air-conditioned house, the humidity was unbearable and the sweating had started again. The local cops were feeling it too, with pit stains reaching down their shirt sides.

Dean nodded, considering. 'Something else we need to check out.'

Sam knew where he was going. 'Chris Hearns.'

'They never really said what happened but the details have to be somewhere. We could say there might be enough of a connection to dig up the details. Has to be on file somewhere. If you can't hack it out of their system, we'll ask for the police hard copy.'

'Too pushy and they'll might dig their heels in. I mentioned Tom Hearns to Albright in there and he nearly flipped his wig.'

'Huh. I asked Barnes about it but she didn't seem to know too much other than the divorce, all that. Happened when she was a kid.'

'She didn't ask anyone about it all this time?'

'Some bridges you don't cross back over in a little town like this once they've been crossed. Maybe that's what this all is. But there's something fishy there, I can feel it in my gut. Albright was old enough to know the Hearns family. Barnes wasn't,' Dean said with a shrug. His stomach made a distinctly unhealthy noise. 'Ugh,' Dean groaned, holding a hand to his belt. 'That's… that's not right.' He got a roll of anti-acid tablets out of his pocket and started chewing one.

'Since when do you carry those?'

Dean looked a little pale. 'Rough diet. Maybe I'm getting old. And the heat.'

'Or your nature's catching up with you.'

'Shut up,' Dean grunted as another stattaco growl rumbled up from his stomach. 'Okay,' he winced. 'Connections: Miranda Hearns to Jacob Dryer. Albright and Dryer to Tom Hearns. All of them to Chris Hearns' death. Am I missing anything?'

'Your vocation in life as a medical research subject?'

'Let's get back and get changed before the search. You can tell me about your summer as a cabana boy in Rio. And like I said before,' Dean said, wiping his brow as they walked back towards the car. 'Little green men it ain't. How does some skinny little Martian move two full-grown people?'

Sam frowned. 'Well… they say that all these abductees get floated – '

'That's it, I'm cancelling your Discovery Network subscription,' Dean cut him off. 'Sharks, Nazis and aliens, oh my God, stop.'

END Chapter 5