"What do you mean 'he was boiled alive'?" Dean's foot on the brakes hitched for a moment, forcing the car to jolt at the red light. The two brothers had been driving for seven long hours on the case, and it just kept getting weirder.

Ten hours prior to hitting the road, they had gotten a call regarding a man named: Marty Lue Susain (Dean just calls him Marty Lue), who they thought was in the middle of either possession or demon blood rejection. Marty wasn't sleeping, eating, and had a skyrocketing fever. His wife, Cecile Susain had gone to go check on him, and saw his eyes bugged out, shaking and completely rattled— attempting to touch the burner to 'warm up'. She panicked, locking him inside the bathroom for God knows how long, like he was a rabid dog so he wouldn't hurt himself. But he guessed that didn't work out well.

Dean felt sorry for the poor guy. He didn't know what the hell was going on, and was trapped by his own wife. Maybe he did have rabies. The symptoms were pointing to a lot of sicknesses, rabies being on the top.

"That's why the officials just phoned me," Sam fixed the clipboard resting on his lap. One leg crossed over the other, and his phone squished between his head and shoulder. "They said 'I'm sorry to inform you, but Marty Lue Susain was pronounced dead at 7:02 PM.'" His eyes skimmed the text written in chicken scratch blue ink.

Dean exhaled deeply from his nose. Another red light approached and glanced at Sam, "They called you? How?"

"I gave Marty my number at the bar to see if he'd come up with any more info on Lucifer." He sighed, pondering his information for a moment. Everything was scrambling in no point or direction; and it's not like humans would suddenly adopt Sudden Death Syndrome from a nearby chicken any time soon. But it still raised red flags on Cecile. She'd given the two information on the case in the first place. "What if she's lying?"

Sam's brows knitted together, "Who?"

"Cecile," Dean stifled a scoff. "She was the last person on scene, and knew of Marty's wearabouts because she placed him in the bathroom…." He paused, "..or so she says."

Sam squinted his way to the truth; searching for a flaw in his brother's accusation was harder to find than a needle in a haystack. He peeled away, "So you think Cecile is behind it?"

"A running theory, hey, were there any murder weapons inside? Any evidence?"

Sam was just staring. It was odd seeing his brother get so wound up on a case. Sure, he and Marty had a few beers at the bar in town and helped with a demon case, but he was really attached to this person. Maybe it was just Sam, but maybe Dean sprouted some form of friendship with the Historian? "Nothing yet. They are still gathering DNA samples and an autopsy, so I don't think—"

"'We shouldn't just jump to conclusions' yeah yeah," Dean grumbled. Sam sensed an eye roll from the side view mirror. The car cruised down the small street, stopping at the house wrapped like a Christmas tree of police tape.

It was a small home, single story, two bedrooms, one bathroom, small kitchen, and a half dining room-half living room. The bluish off-white paint was peeling from the bottom boards of the outside, and the chairs outside were flipped over against a circular glass table. Expecting rain in the area a few days beforehand, since they got a hurricane a week or two ago. A long red chimney poked from the top, and a book-shaped weathervane strapped by what looked like duck tape.

As Dean and Sam approached the house, walking along the thin pathway, they were stopped by an officer. "I'd like to see your ID please." The main was tall, about Sam's height. But had a serious dad-bod. One more donut and his belt was going to pop off.

"Yep," Dean raised his fake FBI idea, and Sam followed suit. "Eddy Marker, and this is my associate Dennis Hargreeves." He and Sam flashed their ID and the officer nodded. "We're here to investigate Marty's death."

"Officer Hansel." Hansel extended a greeting hand, Dean accepted.

"Like Hansel and Grettle?" He grinned.

"Yes," Hansel shook his head, chuckling. "It's an absolute shit show in there." His peppy tone turned grave. "I've been on the force for seven years, and I have never seen something like this."

"That bad?" Sam asked, sympathathy laced in his softer tone.

Hansel nodded, and led the brothers into the house. Nothing looked out of place, food was still on the burner, cups were still filled with tea, the tv was off. Like someone just threw them into a Still Life painting. It was quiet. Sam scoured, looking for any ward's, markings, sigil's, blood markings under the carpets. But they found nothing. The only room that was damaged was the bathroom.

Stepping three feet from the room, Dean, Sam, and Hansel all got hit with the heat and steam still lingering in the hair, followed by the stench of boiled down flesh and blood.

"Fuckin' hell!" Dean exclaimed, looking away at the gruesome sight. While Sam and the officer held up their arms to their faces to mask the stench.

"Holy shit that's—" Sam choked on the thick air swirling around the open windows. The steam was finding it hard to get out through the windows, and throwing fan's in there didn't help— just spread it.

"Yep." Hansel replied.

The bathroom was littered with pieces of thin skin stuck to the rims of the bathroom walls, and blood pooled the clogged drain. Stained red only to the water and splashes. Small clumps of what looked like scalp and hair were swirling around the drain, being slowly sucked into the whirlpool. All moist and overt drowning in water. So there seemed to be no struggling while Marty was in the shower.

"How— okay, run me through this here." Dean composed himself, clearing his throat while Sam was dry heaving by the door.

"We talked with the wife, and she said about ten minutes after he was locked in the bathroom, she heard water running." Hansel decided to continue after his eyes lingered to the shower head. It was still dripping with water, "She thought Marty was just going to take a shower to open up his nose and sinuses, since she reported him sniffing and blowing his nose constantly…."

"Like the flu?" Dean raised an eyebrow, and he couldn't muster in all of his years not to look at the gruesome scene. It was like what Bobby threatened him would happen if he never took a shower and cleaned up every now and again, he would get Trench foot like from World War 1. But instead, it was more like trench—body.

"She said Marty was in there for about fifty minutes, and got concerned. When two hours passed, she unlocked the door and he was dead. The shower was turned all the way up. Like a damn sauna in here."

Sam exchanged glances with Dean warily. "Think it's a homicide?"

"Maybe," Hansel shrugged. "A lot of shit's going around. I wouldn't be surprised if it was something."

"Yeah." Dean agreed, before inhaling deeply, blinking a few times. "Is Cecile still here?"

"Yeah, she's still questioning at the station. Why?"

Dean took a step forward. "We would like to ask her some questions."

As the two strutted out of the house to the accompanying fresh air and leather smells of the Impala, Sam turned to his brother. "So do you still think she's behind it?"

"Now? Doubt it." Sam held back a chortle through his nose, and a small grin faded from the corners of his lips.

"What?" Dean hopped into the driver's seat, closing the door and starting the ignition.

"I have just never seen you change your mind so fast."

Dean groaned, "She couldn't have done it. I didn't smell any sulfur on her or the house. No markings, and most importantly, no signs of struggle. Either she is one Jackie Chan, or she's innocent."

"So what do you remember about the incident?" Sam's hands were clasped together tightly as Cecile trembled in her seat. She was an older woman, maybe mid forties, a little younger than Marty. Her long blonde hair was bright as sand, held up by a single clip and her bangs drooped over her forehead. Her blue eyes darted around.

She took a quiet breath, eyes closed. "H-he was with me. For most of the day."

"When did it start?" Sam asked smoothly, gently, and quiet. Her eyes began to space out in remembrance of her husband's body on the floor, his white eyes and fat melted like slime. Like he stared into the water, eyes open, and his body unmoving to the ground. Limp and shriveled, like a raisin. "Cecile?"

"Oh! Um….h-he started a-about two days…ago. H-he said he came from work, and felt ... .sluggish." Her eyes started to get glossy, and leaned further into the table. "I-I thought he was just tired from work, I-I didn't know…" her hands shook, and cupped her mouth as the brothers exchanged glances again. "….I didn't know he was sick." Her voice trembled through her muffled hands, and a tear streaked along her red cheeks.

There was a quiet pause in the room, before Sam took the initiative. "Cecile, I need you to be strong, just for a moment….okay?" Sam sat down with his small notepad and pen to his side.

Cecile nodded and exhaled deeply, her eyes dropped from the table, trailing back to them.

"Okay, good. I know it's hard to think right now. But I need to know, was there anything off with Marty when he came home? Talking weird? Mumbling? Cold spots in the house you hadn't noticed before? Odd smells?"

"No! No, nothing like that. He was just, stuffy, congested. Something that a dose of Motrin couldn't fix for the night. Then he started to cough, and he stayed home from work and was in bed." She sighed. "He said he was cold. All the time. Which, I know is a side effect of your body fighting off a virus, but not…..not…" she trailed off, her red lips curling in. "I've been sick, but not like that. Ever."

"How so?" Dean leaned in.

"He….he was— he was freezing. Constantly. I'd feel him, and he was burning up. He'd bundle in everything in the house and crank up the heat! I thought he was going crazy! And when I woke up in the middle of the night from a long day, he was trying to touch the stove!"

"Okay, okay, just calm down, can you do that?" Sam reassured, gently resting a hand on hers, and she exhaled deeply, composing herself.

"He scared me," she continued after a swallow. "So I put him…..I put him in the bathroom so he couldn't hurt himself… but I guess I was wrong." Another tear streamed down her cheek, and she pulled away quickly. Wiping it away with her shaky hand before setting them in her lap. "That's all I know."

"Thank you. This means a lot." Sam thanked her, and a small smile curled her lips. Maybe it was relief, or she was curious of his presence and relaxed after he smoothly talked his way into getting information. All Dean did was nod in agreement, heading out behind. Once they exited the room, Dean grinned at Sam.

"Well look at who got good at smooth talking." He mused, fixing his suit.

"Shut up." Sam shot back, rolling his eyes at Dean's joke.

"Hey, just being observational." He held his arms up in surrender.

Did Sam wish he had his demon blood powers back in that moment just to punch some sense into his face? Yes. Yes he did. But he couldn't ignore how much he missed their sibling bickering. It was good to come back to verses arguing with Ruby.

"Asshole."

"Dipshit." Dean punched Sam's shoulder playfully, and he nudged him back as they got into the car.

"Now what?" Dean asked as they collectively sighed. Settling into the leather seats.

"We can call up Bobby." Sam insisted, and Dean winced. Remembering the reason why he was still recovering in the hospital was because he wouldn't just fucking say 'yes' to Zachariah's stingy vessel plan with Michael. What would've happened if Castiel never came back? Never somehow came back after Chuck told them he died like a popped balloon with meat inside? That was still a question, and the brothers hadn't seen him since he poofed off. He didn't know if he should be angry or grateful.

"Dean," Sam poked, and Dean's subconscious scowl softened. "Fuck, fine. Ask him what books he needs and we'll drop 'em off."

"On it." Sam nodded in agreement as the Impala spitted exhaust for a moment, starting up and the two headed off to Bobby's place. "Hey, Bobby. Yeah, yeah. Yeah he's here. Yeah, no. No, we don't think it's a demon."

"What's he saying'?" Dean glanced over, only hearing quiet whispers through the phone.

"Just a second Bobby," Sam pulled away the phone from his ear, and pressed it on speaker. "You're on speaker Bobby."

"Oh, alright then. How are ya Dean?"

"Better."

"So this er…sickness. Y'all agree it's not no damn flu?"

"Yeah, it's some weird thing. Cecile, the wife of Marty, said he was acting crazy. Like he was freezing on Mount Everest. Not to mention the….scene. In the bathroom where they found him."

"That bad?"

"Like a shriveled raisin." Dean shivered.

"Bloody hell, yeah no, that's not good. Did you ask about—"

"Yeah, nothing." Sam replied bluntly, skimming through his note pad. "The only thing being flu-like symptoms."

"That's more than damn 'flu like'." On the other end of the phone, the hunters could hear the sound of flipping pages.

"Bobby? What do you get?"

"A backup ya damn idgits."

They exchanged glances. "Backup of what?" They asked in unison.

"A backup of the demon book and curses."

"I…" Dean swallowed his remark. "Okay, so what do you got?"

"Gimme a second will you?" A silent pause passed, until the flipping and rustling of pages ceased. "Well shit."

"What?"

"I skimmed through this book so many damn times, and I've looked. I only was able to find the side effects like what you described to be something similar to the Paradox Effect. But there is nothing on what it really is. No known origins. Only that it's ... .deadly." Bobby sighed.

"Well no shit Bobby, is there a chance there is a cure?"

"No, that's what I meant by it's fucking deadly. There is no cure known to man that can slow or stop the effects. Once it starts, there is no turning back."

"Shit." Sam cursed under his breath, and Dean pressed harder on the gas. "We'll be there in a few hours."

"Aight."

(HAHA...Well, I guess this happens when a writer is sick, and decides to write while being stuck in bed for the whole day.)