Chapter Three

Exiting the Sheriff's office the crisp, cool fall air was biting in its sharpness and Sam pulled his jacket a little tighter in an effort to keep the chill at bay as he walked towards the Impala. Opening the passenger door he slid his tall frame in with ease, feeling the warmth of the car envelop around him as he closed the door.

"Her name's Jane Smith."

"You're kiddin', right?" Dean saw the expression on Sam's face that told him otherwise. "Okay Sherlock, so what else did you find out?"

"Not much. She's 26. Moved here a few months ago. Works nights at the diner, doesn't go out much during the day. Keeps pretty much to herself."

"Vamp?"

"No, I don't think so. Vampires tend to live in groups, work together. This girl lives alone. Doesn't have any family, hardly any friends for that matter. The sheriff had the feeling that she might have been running away from someone, like an abusive husband or ex."

"Yeah, well she could of picked a better alias than Jane Smith.'

"Well alias or not, no-ones seen her since last night. I told the Sheriff we'd check out where she lives."

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With Sam on look out duty Dean made fast work on the lock of the front door to Jane Smith's apartment, unlocking it in seconds. Entering, surprise flickered across both their faces. The apartment was not what they had expected.

A row of arched windows ran along one wall while wooden floors gleamed with polish, the rich golden hue of the wood giving the place a sense of warmth. Tucked to one side was a small kitchen, all chrome and glass and through a door Dean spied a black and white tiled bathroom. The whole place was new and modern and... well, empty except for a lone piece of furniture sitting in the middle of the living room. Out of place, the double bed was neatly made up with crisp white sheets and a faded duvet. Spartan in the extreme, it was hard to believe that this was someone's home.

"Well this isn't going to take long," said Dean.

Falling into a natural, easy, routine, they went in separate directions; Sam checking for signs of sulfur and EMF while Dean scanned the rest of room, his eyes landing on a black gym bag tucked underneath the bed. Taking it out he unzipped it, tipping the bag upside down. A handful of items tumbled out; a jumper, some t-shirts, underwear. All old and worn and revealing little about the woman who owned them; except that she seemed to have a thing for black and gray. None of which was helpful. Giving the clothing a dismissive glance he felt around the bed for anything that might be tucked away, hidden from view.

"I'll check the bathroom," Sam said, heading in its direction.

With his brother gone, Dean went into the kitchen and worked his way through the kitchen cupboards, systematically pulling the doors opened as he searched. Not surprisingly, after what little they had found so far, there wasn't much in them. Coffee, sugar, crackers, peanut butter and a handful of utensils and crockery.. All of it only confirmed the initial impression that the apartment had given. This was not a home and it made Dean wonder what kind of life Jane Smith was running from. Nothing good, he thought.

Catching sight of something in one of the bottom cupboards he crouched down for a better look.

"Find anything?"

At the sound of Sam's voice coming from behind him Dean pulled out three large empty bottles of bourbon, placing them on the counter top. "Not a lot, other than the fact that she might wanna consider a visit to Betty Ford. What about you?"

In reply Sam placed several white pill bottles on the center aisle.

"Okay, so not just a drinking problem," said Dean. He picked up one of the bottles, reading the label before placing it back down. "Christ, what is all this stuff?"

"Well it's not your average medicine cabinet of aspirin and anti-acids that's for sure. Most of this stuff is pretty heavy duty. Sleeping bills, sedatives, anti-depressants and this… this, I'm fairly sure, is used to treat schizophrenia," said Sam, reading one of the labels.

"Great, that's all we need. Sybil." Dean glanced between the pills and the empty booze bottles. "You don't think…." He let the sentence trail off unfinished.

"What?"

Dean shook his head. "Nothing."

Sam gave him an exasperated look. "Dean."

"Okay, but you're not going to like it. What if we're looking at this all wrong? So far we've found zilch. No sulfur. No EMF. No hex bags. Both the diner and this place are clean. What if it wasn't something supernatural that killed that girl, what if it was something more… human, like a regular Joe… or Jane?"

"Dean, the girl was butchered."

"A room covered in blood tends to give that impression. I'm just saying maybe this Jane Smith slipped up on her meds, had one to many Jim Beam's and flipped out."

"I don't know, I just don't buy it. Most mentally ill people aren't violent and those that are don't generally go around slaughtering their co-workers. Whatever did that to the waitress…"

The ringing of his cell phone interrupted Sam's train of thought. "Hello? Sheriff Barrett, no nothing, the place hasn't been slept in. No sign that she's been here."

He paced around the room as he listened to the voice at the other end for a moment and then hanged up. "That was the Sheriff. They've just gotten the preliminary autopsy report. According to the coroner there were claw marks on the body, like something had ripped her open and her heart was missing. Torn right out of her body."

"Well that's never good," replied Dead.

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The motel room was like so many that they had been in over the years. A little tacky and old fashioned, as if no one had heard that the seventies were well and truly over. In the end the decor didn't really matter as long as the beds were okay and the shower hot, they were happy to rest anywhere. Sleeping in the Impala was fine - some of the time. Like when money was tight or when they were just too shattered with exhaustion to go to the effort of finding a motel. But as far as the brothers were concerned nothing could beat the comfort of a bed that you could stretch out on or a shower that rinsed away a days worth of grime and blood. Right at this moment though their most basic need was for food and coffee.

"So, we've got one dead girl and one missing girl," said Dean, wrapping his hands around his coffee as he rested his elbows on his thighs, the bed sagging slightly under his weight.

Sam pulled his attention away from his laptop screen, the remains of his coffee and salad sitting nearby. "Looks that way."

"Why kill one girl, leave a bloody mess and take the other?"

"A snack for later?"

"Now there's a cheery thought." Dean mulled this over, hoping it wasn't true. One victim was bad enough, two just made things more complicated. "Any luck in figuring out what it is?"

"No."

Sam closed the lid of his laptop with a push of resignation. The past hour of surfing the internet had given them exactly squat in the the way of leads. Anymore searching would only waste time and time was one thing he was sure they didn't have. They needed to figure out what this thing was. Find it. Kill it. And all before anyone else was killed. "It could be a skinwalker or a wendigo. The claw marks, the taking of the heart. It kinda fits but something about it doesn't feel right."

"Feel right? Since when did any of this ever feel right. We go by our gut and we hope for the best. Most of the time it works. So what's your gut telling you?"

Turning in his chair Sam faced his brother. "It's what you said earlier, it got me thinking."

"And what exactly did I say earlier?" asked Dean.

"About us looking at it all wrong. Maybe Jane isn't a victim, maybe she's a witness."

"She saw the girl get slaughtered and ran away? Why not go to the cops?"

"Would you?" asked Sam giving his brother a pointed look, "According to the Sheriff she's spent the past couple of years in a psychiatric facility. Before that she lived on the streets for who knows how long until she was arrested for assaulting a police officer. There's no way this girl is going to go to the cops or anyone else."

"Okay, I get you point. So how are we going to find this chick if she's on the run. With the lead she's got she could be half way out of the state by now."

"Actually I don't think we have to look that far."

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"Can't say I blame her for going on a bender," said Dean

He turned off the Impala's ignition, the brilliant neon blue of the lit up sign of the roadside bar standing out against the black of the night sky. On the edge of town, it was a derelict looking building that looked like it had seen one too many bar fights. Out of sight down a dirt road, surrounded by trees and bushes, rustic was one word for it, though Dean could think of a lot more others that were far more suitable. "You really think she's going to turn up here?"

"Other than the diner and her apartment this is the only other place she hanged around at on a regular basis. She's got no family to go to. Her only real friend was murdered right in front of her. Right now she's scared and alone and most likely not thinking straight, especially after what she saw. I'm guessing sooner or later she's going to come here. It's the one place she might feel safe."

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"Hi. US Marshall's." Dean flicked his wallet open, flashing his ID at the bartender. "Wondering if you might be able to help us out?"

The bartender carried on with what he was doing, taking his time in answering. "Maybe. What is it you wanna know?"

Dean ignored his manner.

Bartenders had their uses, especially in a hunter's world. They saw everything and heard a lot more. The keeper of secrets was how most hunters viewed them. It made them a handy source of information. Unfortunately it also made them difficult to deal with. They weren't overly fond of the law either which meant that getting information out of them was twice as hard. The direct approached usually worked the best.

"We're looking for a woman. Jane Smith?"

"Yeah. I know who you mean," said the bartender, hesitation in his voice, "You know you're the second person today to ask after her."

"Oh?"

"Yeah the Sheriff was in earlier, wanted to know if I'd seen her and to let him know if she turned up."

Turning his head away from the bartender, Sam lowered his voice. "I told you didn't think that the Sheriff was buying the coroner's suggestion that a wild animal had killed Amy."

"Yeah it looks that way, said Dean his own voice quiet then turned back to the bartender. "And? Have you seen her?"

"Not since she was in here a couple of days ago."

"What can you tell us about her?" asked Sam.

Unfazed by their questions the bartender picked up a freshly washed glass off the top of the bar and wiped it dry with the cloth. "Not much. She comes in four maybe five times a week, always just before midnight. Stays until closing. Drinks bourbon, neat. Doesn't say much. She usually sits over there." He flicked his head in the direction of a booth almost completely hidden in the shadows in the farthest corner of the bar.

"Thanks," said Dean. Moving away from the bar, he and Sam kept their voices low as they talked. "So what do you think?"

"I think we need to find her before the Sheriff does, because if he gets to her first he's most likely going to charge her with Amy's murder.

"You know it's still possible that she did it."

"Okay it's a possibility… a faint one. But I'm not convinced. Something tells me that she's out there, mostly likely terrified out of her skull and hiding from the creature that ripped Amy to shreds. We have to help her."

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"Two beers."

Dean placed some notes on the counter, casting his eyes over the bar's customers as a George Thorogood song played in the background.

It was your typical crowd. A handful guys playing some pool, winding down from a hard days work. Another group playing darts, talking and drinking beer. Two girls, sitting together, looking like they were barely the legal age to drink, casting sidelong glances at some guys sitting nearby.

One of the girls, blonde haired and very pretty, caught Deans glance and flashed a flirtatious smile as his gaze slid over her. A man and a woman leaned against a wall, whispering words to each other and further along a much older guy dressed in a plaid shirt and a trucker's cap quietly nursed a beer as he sat at a booth in a corner.

Everything was normal and Dean relaxed a little as he picked up the beers and headed to the table that Sam had claimed as theirs for the tonight. As the barmaid walked past him with a tray of empty glasses he couldn't help but give her an appreciative look. Now she was his kind of chick, slim but curvy with her assets nicely on display. Dark blue jeans hugging her hips. A black Harley Davidson tank top that fitted snugly over full rounded breasts. Tousled dark brown hair that looked as if she had just rolled out of bed; a thought that definitely had him thinking of far more pleasant things than looking for some lunatic chick who may or may not be a killer.

Sitting down he flashed the barmaid a smile. A smile of immoral charm and wicked intent, the kind of smile that generally got him whatever he wanted, especially as far as women were concerned. Seeing her own appreciative glance and smile he knew that the night was definitely looking up.

"Whatever it is you're thinking of doing, it's going have to wait until we find Jane," said Sam, seeing the exchange of looks between his brother and the barmaid.

Dean's smile got a little wider. "No harm in enjoying the view Sammy, especially when it looks like that." He swallowed a mouthful of beer. "You still think she's going to turn up?"

Sam sighed, "Look I know you still think she might have killed Amy but I don't. And don't ask me why, it's just a feeling I've got. There's something else you haven't considered."

"And that would be?"

"If Jane didn't kill Amy then whatever killed her is still out there and probably looking for Jane also. If it finds her before we do… she's dead."

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Songs: You Talk Too Much (performed by George Thorogood)