Chapter 1

That was it. If Sam heard one more aggravated grunt from the driver's seat, he was going to do something very, very drastic.

He wasn't quite sure what, exactly, but he would think of something. Most likely.

"Dude, come on!" Dean breathed vehemently, his voice just audible over the crackly hum of the radio. Well, that was a step up from growling, although not by much.

"Dean," Sam bit out in exasperation, shaking his head at the ridiculousness of his brother. His older brother. How, exactly, did that work out?

"It doesn't bother you?" Dean asked, removing his eyes from the current scenery to spare Sam a glance.

"The fact that people hang ghosts from their trees and put skeletons on their front steps? No, not really." Sam answered, his tone indicating both his vexation of the subject and the fact that this was a long-exhausted argument.

"They have no idea, Sammy," Dean replied, and Sam had heard this speech well enough over the years to mouth along with him. He didn't, of course; at least one of them had to be mature about this. "They decorate their yards and wear stupid costumes every year, and they have no idea that this stuff is actually out there, killing."

"They can't help being ignorant, Dean," Sam retorted, and he saw Dean silently articulating the words from the corner of his eye. Jerk. "They don't know what's out there, and we want to keep it that way."

"Yeah, yeah," Dean muttered, although Sam knew it was more of a brush-off than a conceder. When Halloween rolled around next year, Sam was certain his brother would whine all over again about the decorations just as he'd done since… well, since Sam could remember.

Then he froze, stricken as a thought occurred to him. If the Crossroad Demon had its way, then by this time next year Dean would be dead and gone. He suddenly felt sick, his stomach rolling unpleasantly as the microwaved hamburger Dean had forced him to eat threatened to make a reappearance.

"Sam?" Dean asked, and his tone let Sam know that some of the turmoil had shown on his face.

"Yeah?" He asked, pulling himself away from his thoughts with some difficulty and willing his stomach to settle.

"Nothin'." Dean replied after a few seconds, and Sam glanced over at him. Suspicion lingered around the corners of his eyes and in the downward tilt of his lips, but other than that Dean looked decidedly normal. "How much farther?"

Sam unraveled the massive map next to him and compared their location to that of the tiny, numbered streets. "Not too far. Should be there in about thirty minutes."

Dean grinned then, his foot pressing harder against the pedal. The car let out a ferocious roar and gained momentum. "Bet I can make it in ten."

Sam winced slightly, but was otherwise unfazed. He had ridden shotgun to Dean long enough to be at ease with speeds like these.

The tires hit a wide, cleverly concealed bump in the road, and the whole frame wobbled a little. Sam gulped. Well, almost at ease.

"So, you want to go over the case again?" Dean asked, eyes still intent on the road.

"Yeah, sure," Sam said, letting his previous thoughts disperse as he recalled the information he'd found. "I ran across an article in the Lawrence Times—,"

"Lawrence?" Dean asked quickly, his voice wary. Sam noticed the way his eyes left the road for a few moments to rove over street-signs and scenery, as if making sure they hadn't somehow ended up a dozen states away in Kansas.

"We're in Massachusetts, Dean," He said patiently, a little sympathetically.

"Right," Dean said slowly, and Sam saw his grip loosen slightly on the wheel; blood flooded back to his knuckles. "Lawrence, Massachusetts, got it."

"Yeah," Sam replied, for lack of anything better. "Anyway, a few people have turned up dead over the last two weeks, starting with this one guy in a neighborhood called Whispering Willows Way—,"

"Say that again, slowly," Dean interrupted once more, but this time there was a slick grin on his lips.

Sam narrowed his eyes but didn't deign to respond. "There's no clear pattern; they all died differently. So I looked into it, and there have actually been a few dozen deaths over the past thirty-five years."

"So, probably not coincidence." Dean replied, his voice pensive.

"Definitely not," Sam replied, with so much certainty that Dean shot him a puzzled glance. "These deaths? They occurred in October. Different years, different days, but all in the same month."

Margaret had stared into the mirror, without blinking, for most of the day. Her face had long since morphed and become a blurred image without discernable features.

He had bought her this vanity table. He'd noticed the way she'd had to dash back and forth between the bathroom and the bedroom closet while getting ready, and had secretly purchased the piece of furniture to make her life just a little bit easier. He had always done things to make her life easier, more comfortable.

And now he was gone. They were supposed to grow old together; they had planned on having children. There was an extra room right down the hall from theirs, and they had been preparing to convert it into a nursery. But he was dead. Their house stood empty, most of her furniture in storage except for the beautiful piece in front of her that so reminded her of David, and she was staying with her parents. She would never have that life; none of those carefully-made plans would come to pass.

He had been twenty-nine, and he was dead. And she was twenty-seven and a widow. How was that fair? How?

Tears spilled over her lashes and down her cheeks, overlapping older, nearly dry tracks. It seemed she couldn't go an hour without weeping.

Distantly, she heard a soft, chiming noise. Pulling herself back from the grief, the raw, indescribable pain, she stood shakily from the delicate chair that sat in front of the small table. She ran her hands clumsily over her face and cheeks as the doorbell sounded again, and then gave it up as a lost cause. She knew the tears would not be kept permanently at bay.

Shuffling out of the room, feeling a hundred years older and reliving gruesome details every step of the way, she made it to the front door and pulled it open.

She'd expected policeman. Or maybe sympathizers, or people who were truly grieving the loss of David King. She could tell just from looking at the pair framing the doorway, though, that these two were none of the above.

"Mrs. King?" The taller of the two asked, and she sent him a puzzled look. He sounded compassionate, looked sympathetic, and if she hadn't been positive that she'd never met him in her life, she'd maybe think he was just another person wishing to offer condolences. But there was a purpose behind his sad gaze, one she didn't altogether understand.

"Yes?" She asked; her voice came out hoarse, and she cleared her throat.

"Sorry to disturb you, Mrs. King, but we need to discuss your husband's assets." He caught Margaret's confused look and quickly continued, "Because your husband passed away before he could generate a will, we've been sent to act as Personal Representatives."

"Is that important?" She asked, stepping back a little unsteadily and allowing them entrance into her home. "I hadn't even thought about…"

"That's highly understandable, Mrs. King," The taller one said gently, his voice again conveying the depths of his empathy. "We just need to ask you a few questions about David."

"Call me Margaret," She said absently, because she had no other reply to that and she wasn't sure she was ready to begin a discussion like this. Then she looked at the two of them. "I'm sorry, but I didn't catch your names."

"Samuel Hart, ma'am," said the first, lifting his hand for her to shake.

"Dean Malcolm," The second introduced, speaking for the first time during their encounter. "Sorry about your husband, Margaret." His voice wasn't as soft or as soothing as the other man's, but there was something comforting in the gruff tone. She also noticed that he was shorter, but older, with more lines around his eyes and a tired set to his shoulders. The picture all-together shouted weary defiance; she knew enough about that.

She nodded and led them to the dining room table. "Would you like anything?" She asked, stalling just a bit longer. "Tea, something to eat?"

The man called Dean looked like he was halfway considering it, but Sam shot him a look and he desisted. "We're sorry to bring this up," The younger man said, eyes back on her. "But we really need to ask you those questions."

She breathed in deeply, steeling herself, and then sat down across from them. They stared jointly at her for a moment.

"Can you tell us what happened?" Sam posed the question finally, and she released the air in her lungs with a soft whoosh.

"What has that got to do with David's assets?" She asked, a little stiffly.

"We're just trying to be thorough, Margaret," Dean replied, leaning forward with his elbows resting on the table. "Our firm requires a report on the events surrounding David's death."

She flinched, and he looked sorry. Then she closed her eyes, braced herself again, and said, "I was getting ready in the other room. We had… we had dinner reservations at the new restaurant a few blocks from here. He was in the garage, cleaning up some of his Halloween decorations—he loved to decorate—but when I came to find him he—he—," She shuddered to a halt, the tears releasing from her eyes in a flood of grief.

"It's okay, Margaret, just take your time," Sam said, resting a hand on top of one of hers from across the table. She pulled a tissue from her pocket and dabbed at her eyes and nose. Then she breathed deeply until she had regained her composure a little.

"He was on the floor, and everything was dark. I tried to get to him, but I slipped on—I slipped on his blood. It was everywhere. All over the floor, all over me," She took a gasping breath, but didn't stop; now that she had begun, the words tumbled quickly out of her mouth as if begging to be released. "I got to him, and I tried to find what was wrong, where he was bleeding. And on his back—on his back there was—," She did stop this time, unable to squeeze the word past the terrible lump in her throat. Her hands clutched at the air, as if holding an invisible handle, and she moved downward them in a swift, pantomiming motion.

"Was it a stab wound, Mrs. King?" Dean asked, and his voice sounded strange. She looked up at him, and was a little taken aback by what she saw. His face had whitened noticeably and there seemed to be something dark and haunted lurking just behind his eyes. When she didn't answer, he continued, "Was he stabbed in the back?"

She nodded, confused by the bleak understanding she saw in his expression. "That's what they told me later. He was already—there was nothing they could do. He was de-dead."

Through the painful haze and glazed tears, she noticed Dean's eyes shifted to his partner and then jumped guiltily away, as if the action was forbidden.

"And there was no weapon around?" Sam asked to pull the conversation back to its directed route, although he, too, sounded distracted.

"No," She answered, and then amended, "Well, David had this… this life-size Halloween figure—but the knife was plastic and couldn't have—couldn't have—,"

"I understand," Sam said when she didn't go on. Then he hesitated slightly, as if about to ask a question he didn't really want to voice. "He didn't have any… enemies, did he, Margaret? Anyone would who would want to hurt him?"

Her eyes widened at the implication, and she shook her head harshly. "No. Everyone liked David. Everyone. He was kind and honest, and he helped out whenever he could."

She shook her head, tears still listing gently down her cheeks and splattered onto the dining room table.

"We were sent here to discuss David's assets," Sam said slowly after a few moments of silence, and she could tell he was watching her closely. "But I hate to think of upsetting you more than we already have. We could come back in a few days; you could prepare a list of any valuables he might have had in the meantime."

Her first instinct was to deny the proposition, to say that she was strong and could deal with this discussion. But the fact was she couldn't; she couldn't bear to think about David or any of his once-cherished belongings, and this man was allowing her an out, a chance to come to terms with it at her own pace.

A chance that she would most certainly take.

"Thank you," She said quietly and sincerely, standing from her chair. They did the same and she led them to the door, which she opened for them. "You can stop by in a few days; I'll be here all week."

And the week after that. And all the weeks following until she found another place to live. Another place to live without David, a place to be alone with the ghost of the life they could have had.

"I'm truly sorry," Sam said, his voice stripped and honest. She nodded and smiled tremulously.

"I just don't know what to do now," She confessed, perhaps because his voice inspired such earnestness and trust. "David was… everything. How can I live without him?"

"I don't know," This time it was not Sam but Dean who spoke, and she looked at him. His eyes were guarded now, but his expression was taut and his shoulders were tense.

"I guess I have to find a way. I don't have a choice," She said to him, her body seeming to sink into itself at the thought of living one more moment with the loss.

"Most people don't," He replied, and then edged another glance at Sam.

"Thank you for your time," The other man said, as if taking a cue. "We'll see you later."

"Goodbye," She said faintly, waving a hand. Then she shut the door and turned around to face the house—and the world—alone.

Another update tomorrow...