Chapter 3: What The Fuck Was That?

"So a retired cop in Michigan takes a nose dive from his second story window? Remind me again why we think this is our type of case?" Dean Winchester yawned, blinking the sleep out of his eyes. For a moment the yellow lines sprawled on the pavement before him doubled but quickly replaced themselves again. It was far too early to be driving.

"Uh," his baby brother started, fumbling for the right answer, "according to a local reporter's inside man on the force this guy—former Detective Ward— was found with some stolen evidence from his detective days in his home…"

"So he gets a little nostalgic and decides to off himself?"

"A particularly gruesome case," Sam continued, ignoring his brother's remark, "from eighty-one involving a guy dubbed as the Cabin Fever Killer…"

"Catchy,"

The youngest Winchester brother's tone slowed, "who claimed all his companions, including his sister and girlfriend, were possessed by evil demons that tried to kill him," Dean's eyebrow popped, a silent symbol of his peeked interest, "the murders took place in this old cabin—hence the nickname—that belonged to some archeological professor who disappeared not long before the incident. Uhh, it seems the professor's colleagues at the time thought his was on to something about discovering some lost ancient Sumerian text, um I couldn't find much else out about the text, aside from the supposed translations recorded before the professor's disappearance found in the cabin. This was what the old guy had stolen and according to the papers, was playing at the time of…impact. Of course there's nothing to be found about what's actually on the recording—"

"Of course not," Dean tore a large mouthful out of his donut.

"And since the suicide it seems all the old guy's neighbors have been showing up in the papers dead too," his brother swallowed and immediately chops down for another piece, "one killed in a home improvement accident involving a buzz saw," Dean grimaced, "another hit by a car and a third…" Sam paused to draw a breath, "and third a little girl drowned in her kiddy pool."

"So what, we think this Somalia—"

"Sumerian,"

"Text translation was really on that tape and caused the cop to kill himself and all these other people to die?" pastry bits crumbled off his lips, his voice skeptic.

"Well the killer kept claiming that's what made the demons take his friends,"

"So a demon's behind this?"

Sam sighed, rubbing his temples, "apparently he also claimed to have traveled back to the middle ages with an Oldsmobile and a…boomstick?" he squinted, making sure he had read that last part correctly, "to fight the Armies of the Dead'."

His brother replied with a groan, "What, was this Cabin Fever guy and his buddies actually possessed by demons or is he just nutty and it's all just some cosmic coincidence?"

The younger shrugged, "we could always ask him."

"Beg your pardon, Sammy?"

"The guy's still alive," Sam rummaged in his seat through some more paperwork, "Uuhh…Ashley J. Williams was sentenced to life at Sunny Meadows Psychiatric Hospital for the Criminally Insane just outside Detroit and is still kickin'."

"Sunny Meadows?" Dean shifted the Impala into park. Again his brother's response was a shrug. The eldest sighed, "okay we go take a look at this guy later," he glanced into the car's mirror to adjust his black tie and brush away a few unsightly crumbs, "right now we got work to do."

Betsy Ellen York finally made it to her front door after the third ring of the bell. Her eldest daughter was already waiting there silent and frozen on the welcome mat. Betsy rubbed the crumpled tissue in her hand beneath her reddened eyes.

"Theresa, sweetheart, open the door," she choked, "please."

The little girl obeyed, though failed to both either create sound or blink.

"Mornin'," a man dressed in a black suit and tie greeted the girl cheerfully (though blinking in surprise upon seeing the girl at first). He bent down carefully to speak at the child's level, "My name's Detective Stoker and this is my partner Detective Bram," he nodded to the slightly younger man beside him, "Is your Mommy or Daddy home?"

The child made no attempt to move, causing the "Detective" to suck in a lung full of air and impatience.

"I'm right here," Mrs. York said softly as she stepped from the safety of the shadows in her home. She ushered her daughter behind her, muttering requests for the girl to go upstairs to her room. The woman then turned to face the Detectives, smiling pleasantly on her doorstep. She balled the worn tissue tighter into her fist.

"Can I help you?" Betsy's voice was dry as she spoke.

"Yes M'am," the second officer began, "I was wondering you could just answer a few questions for us about your neighbor, Mr. Ward?"

Her breath caught in her lungs. She cleared her throat, a gesture now starting to become a habit, to keep her mind off the tightening sensation in her chest, "I've already talked to the other Officer's about this… weeks ago," and frankly she just didn't want to hear another damn thing about that old hermit anymore.

The Detective's faces fell, but only for a moment. They exchanged a brief glance, almost like they were expecting that to be her answer all along. "I'm sorry M'am," the same officer continued, "You see we're just investigating new leads…"

"It was a suicide," she spat.

"We know," the first took control again, "but we understand you were a witness and just want to ask you a few more questions about what you saw that night." He patted his coat pocket for a moment in a fruitless search before snapping his fingers at his partner who then extracted both a pen and pad from his coat pocket.

She had had it. Betsy didn't wish to answer any of these questions anymore, "I can tell you what I didn't see that night!" she snapped at them. She realized her body was now shaking as the young detectives stared at her with baffled expressions, "I didn't see my daughter, Sarah," he voice broke, the crumpled tissue shot over her lips for a moment, "My Sarah," she exhaled, "go out back to play in that stupid little pool Hal got the girls over the summer as I was calling 911! I didn't see my three year old daughter slip and drown in that piece of shit as I was on hold with your department!" the boys flinched under her tone of increasing aggravation, "I didn't hear Theresa banging on the back door for mommy to come and help her baby sister!"

What was left of the poor woman's composure finally shattered. Her body shivered and shoulders shook as throaty sobs escaped her mouth. Betsy's knees even began to buckle under the weight of her own misery. Her finger nails clawed into the door frame attempting to keep her body afloat.

"I-I'm very sorry for your loss," the youngest male stuttered. He instinctively outstretched a hand to try and catch the falling woman but was swatted away by her own.

"Leave!" she hissed, stabbing a trembling finger in their direction, "Just leave!"

The Winchester brothers did not wait for her to demand their departure a third time, "What the fuck was that, Sammy?!" Dean growled, slamming the door of the Impala.

"I thought that was supposed to be the Campbell residence!" his brother scrabbled through his pile of paperwork, "I must have gotten the addresses mixed up—"

"Yeah, I'll say!"

"The Yorks lived there," Sam swallowed a mouthful of air, "their daughter was the one who drowned the same night as Ward."

"Shit," the eldest mumbled, banging a hand against the steering wheel. Sam continued to shift through his papers. Though only until he noticed the lack of engine roar and peeked up at his sibling. Dean could feel the question in his brother's eyes.

"Did you see that little girl? The one who answered the door?"

"Yeeaaahh," he paused for a breath, "what about her?"

"Oh, she didn't look creepy to you?"

"Dean she just lost her sister…" Sam didn't need to say anything more. Both brothers knew the feeling of losing flesh and blood well.

"There's still something not right about her," Dean huffed, finally turning his eye and bringing the car's engine to life.