A/N: Just to answer a couple of questions, Cas is not a hunter. At least not officially. I will be revealing more about him and his past in the following chapters, so stick around and don't forget to review! Also, parakeet, your reviews make me smile xo
When Castiel saw Dean heading for the broken door, he called for him, "You'll just be running blind."
"I've gotta do something!"
"We need a plan, Dean."
"I've gotta tell Jo. She doesn't even know."
"Look, no one is going anywhere," Castiel said stoutly. "I'm not letting you jeopardize this case because of your heart."
Dean looked scathingly at him, "What do you want me to do?"
Castiel was frowning. He turned away, clearing the books from his bed and sitting down.
Dean strode right up to him and looked him in the eye and repeated, "Castiel. What. Do. You. Want. Me. To. Do."
"I had hoped we would have more time, but if Jo is flickering already, we'll have to-" he broke away here, rubbing his face with his hands and exhaling sharply. "To save Jo, I need to know who's responsible for these disappearances."
"What are we waiting for?" Dean burst out. "Let's go find that bastard!"
"I'm afraid it's not that easy. You've seen it yourselves, ghosts can choose to make themselves visible. It's not like I can print an ad in the paper, you know. I don't have a face or a name to him."
"Are you sure it's a him?" Sam asked smally.
"That's what Mr. Knightfield used to say."
"Damn it, Cas," Dean banged his fist into the wall. "How were you planning on finding him."
"I was going to look up police records for any suspicious deaths in the area between 1900 and 1950."
"Why that time-frame?" Sam spoke again.
Cas turned his head to him, "Judging from this ghost's ability, he's had a long time to perfect it."
"Are we talking about just Lawrence, or all of Kansas?" Sam asked.
"Castiel?"
"First hauntings were reported in the 1920s," Cas said, pressing his eyes close tight for a moment, "but that was Wichita. It could have traveled."
"How far?"
"Not too far. Ghosts don't like travelling."
"So all of Kansas, then?"
"Yes, perhaps. Why?"
Sam was already slipping out his laptop from his case. He flipped it open and tapped furiously at the keyboard, the screen burned like blue fire in his eyes.
"What are you doing?" Castiel asked with interest.
"I can get you police records, right here, right now," Sam breathed. "Ever since that power surge a few years ago, government networks have been pretty weak. I can get around it."
"Power Surge?" Castiel looked at Dean.
"Yeah, massive outages back in '11," he replied. "Not sure what caused it, probably grid overload."
"How strange," Castiel said pleasantly, then turned his attention back to the younger Winchester. So, you can perform a state-wide search, right from this room?"
Sam glanced at him with a broad grin, "I think I can find our ghost."
Less than ten minutes later, Sam cleared his throat to announce his findings.
"Alright, I've looked up records from all a string of memorial hospitals, county morgues and all the corresponding police reports, I've got - uh one, two - seven deaths, one of them could be it."
"What does it say?" Castiel asked, peering over Sam's left shoulder and Dean hovered over his right.
"Clemency Bishop, matron, died 1939 in a house fire, body not found."
"Could've burned up?" Dean asked.
"Can't be her." Cas frowned.
"Catherine Ridge, housewife, had her heart ripped right out of her chest in 1945."
"That's just gruesome."
"Catherine Ridge? The heart was binding her, but she was devoured last week, Mr Knightfield had said. Poor women, bless her soul."
"Amandine and Phillippe Tate," Sam continued. "Went missing from a children's part in the 40s, bodies washed up in the Marion Reservoir with their limbs missing."
"Jesus Christ, they were just kids."
"Probably still bound," Cas breathed, "but it's not them. Were they buried?"
"Cremated," Sam answered.
"It's not them."
"Mathew Holland, hacked to death with an axe by his son, 1938, Wichita. His son was found dead in their home the following day, though he was in perfect physical condition."
"What else does it say, Sam?"
"About Holland? Rich land owner. The inheritance must've been close to a million," Sam said. "Too bad his son couldn't get his hands on it."
"Indeed," Castiel narrowed his eyes at the screen. Where were they buried?"
"Together in the woods behind their mansion."
"It's him."
"Hold on, how can you tell?"
"He fits the description. Think. Adult male," Castiel said, rifling through a pile of clothes, "cheated out of life and out of fortune, killed by his own son, who, mysteriously, winds up dead as well, if that doesn't sound like a malicious ghost to you, what does?"
Sam watched him slip on a trench coat and run his hands through his hair, "Where are you off to?"
"What's the address?"
"The Holland residence? Uh, Pawnee Road, north east of McPherson."
"Well what are you waiting for?" Castiel stared blankly at them.
"You're not seriously going there, right now, are you?" Sam gaped.
"Why not? We've got a ghost to liberate."