Morgan Briarwood (briarwood) wrote,
Morgan Briarwood

Fic: Trust Doesn't Rust (1/9)


Part One

Chapter 1 graphic by Morgan Briarwood

All alone in an empty room
Nothing left but the memories of when
I had my best friend.
I don’t know how we ended up here.
I don’t know but it’s never been so clear
We made a mistake, dear.

Low Shoulder, Through The Trees

Madison, Wisconsin

Dean lifted the yellow police tape and, ignoring its Do Not Cross warning, ducked beneath it. One of the uniformed cops on the other side of the tape moved to intercept him.

Dean whipped out the fake FBI credentials from inside his suit. “Special Agent Mosley, FBI. Who’s in charge here?” He flashed the badge at the cop.

The cop barely glanced at the badge. “Detective Spencer is in the suite. No one told us to expect the FBI.”

Dean gave his best sarcastic smile. “Well, I was just passing by and thought I’d drop in and make your day,” he drawled. “The suite is this way?” He gestured down the hallway.

“I’ll escort you,” the cop insisted.

The last thing Dean needed was a babysitter, but he kept his mouth shut and started walking. It was a nice, modern hotel: there was thick carpet pile beneath his feet as he walked and the walls were lined with mirrors and framed pictures. Dean paid little attention to the setting. He knew exactly where he needed to go – he could smell the blood already. It was a good thing he’d seen the news before he ordered that second cheeseburger.

There were more cops hanging around outside the crime scene but they let Dean and his police escort pass. The door to the suite stood open and the first thing Dean saw was the wide streak of blood on the cream-coloured carpet. Beside the blood, black tape outlined the shape of a body, but the bodies had already been removed from the scene. That was a relief: Dean could handle a gory crime scene but this room smelled foul enough without adding fresh corpse to the mix. It wasn’t only the smell of blood and shit: there was spilled beer, cigarette smoke and marijuana, sex and stale sweat.

Detective Spencer turned out to be a man in his fifties who shaved his head to disguise his baldness and looked like he was a little too fond of greasy food. He intercepted Dean as he stepped over the first streak of blood.

“Hey! Get out of my crime scene!”

Dean produced the FBI credentials again. “I just want a look around, Detective. Can you tell me what you’ve got here?”

“A whole lot of dead bodies is what we’ve got here,” Spencer growled. “What does the FBI want with this?”

Dean glanced at the wall where tape outlined another body against the floor and wall. “Your victims are connected to another case,” he improvised.

Spencer looked interested. “I’d like to hear about that.”

“I can’t tell you much. Talk to me about the murders first.”

Spencer nodded. “The victims are all members of a rock band. Low Shoulder. They were playing a concert here in town. Came back to the hotel about 2am, ordered a lot of alcohol on room service which was delivered…” he checked his notebook, “…at 2:35. That’s the last anyone knows until around 4am, when seven young women – fans, apparently – came up here and tried to break into their suite. Lucky for all of us, hotel security followed ’em up and stopped it. One of the security guards saw blood beneath the door so he opened the room.”

Dean gave a little smirk. “I bet he really regretted that.” They were walking around the room as Spencer talked. Dean hadn’t seen many massacre sites this fresh, but it looked…wrong. Supernatural kind of wrong, but then, that was why he was there.

There was another body-shape marked out beneath the window. Dean crouched down beside it, pretending to examine the blood spatter while he checked for sulphur. Then he did look at the blood spatter, because he thought he could tell how this one died. It looked as if the guy had been facing the room when someone sliced his throat. But if someone came at you with a knife, wouldn’t you try to run? Or at least block the blow? He frowned.

“Did you have a blood expert look at this?” Dean asked. It would be good to have his suspicion confirmed. Dean’s guess came from observation and experience, but he could be wrong.

“Not yet. Our spatter analyst will come in when everyone else is done.” Spencer waited for Dean’s acknowledgement before he went on. “The murder weapon was a bowie knife. The killer left it in the chest of the last vic.” Spencer nodded toward another body-shape.

“Did you find defensive wounds on the bodies?” Dean asked, again looking for confirmation. He could see they didn’t have time to defend themselves. Spencer was useless. Dean was going to need to hack into the police reports to find out what he really needed to know here.

“Hard to say. Multiple wounds on most of them…” Spencer went on to describe the condition of the bodies in rather more detail than Dean wanted. He got the important points, though: one killer, armed with a bowie knife, multiple wounds on all victims, suggesting the killer took his time over each kill, but five men, even if they were drunk or stoned, wouldn’t have just stayed put while their buddies were slaughtered.

No. Whatever did this was either so fast the massacre took mere seconds or it used some kind of spell or psychic ability to keep them all passive or oblivious while it did this. Either way, the killer wasn’t human.

Dean searched the suite as best he could with half a dozen cops hanging around watching his every move. The rooms were a mess, like there had been some serious partying going on before the bloodbath. The party debris gave Dean an excuse to look around carefully, but he found no signs of witchcraft and no sulphur. At least, there was nothing in the rooms where the bodies were found. In one of the bedrooms, he did find a collection of occult books. He glanced through them with Detective Spencer looking over his shoulder the whole time. Most of the books were rubbish: fake black magic made up by Goths and Wicca wannabes. The dead men were a rock band; Dean figured this was their way of pretending they were cool. A bunch of image-conscious, pretentious idiots.

He returned the books to the bag where he found them, and as he did, he caught sight of a page that must have fallen out of one of them. He pulled the page out and had to bite back an exclamation he couldn’t have explained to the hovering cop. This he recognised. He pretended to replace the page but hid it in his sleeve.

Dean took one last glance around the room, but he had learned all he could here. It was time to start the real research.

Damn, he missed having Sam around. The big geek actually loved this part.


“I don’t know, Bobby.” Dean switched the cell phone to his left ear, using his right hand to type on his laptop. The laptop was one of the few things Sam took with him when he left; this was a new one and Dean was still getting used to a computer without all Sam’s little customisations. “Whatever cut those guys to ribbons sure ain’t human, but I didn’t find any of the usual signs. No sulphur. No missing organs. No nothing.”

“So maybe the killer is human,” Bobby suggested. “You said you smelled weed. Maybe that wasn’t all they were smokin’.”

“I thought of that, but…” Dean bit back a curse as he hit a firewall. Damn it! He’d gotten too used to letting Sammy do this stuff. He was a fair hacker back when he worked with Dad, but times and technology had moved on and Dean hadn’t kept up his skills because Sam was so much better at it anyway. He’d never planned for the day when Sam wouldn’t be at his side.

Being apart from Sam was necessary, Dean told himself. The past year had been too much. Sam’s lack of faith in him, all the lies and deceit: they couldn’t be scrubbed away with an apology. Nothing was going to fix it. The rift between them was too deep now.

And Dean was doing great without Sam! He worked that one case with Castiel and had so much fun… But Dean knew he wasn’t fooling himself. He was supposed to be with Sam. When Sam wasn’t at his side, he left a hole so big no one else could fill it.

“I don’t know,” Dean said again. “The cops have a security vid that shows someone leaving the suite about the time of the murders. Thing is, it’s a girl. She’s a tiny thing, looks like high school age. If she was possessed it would make sense, but – ”

“But no sulphur,” Bobby concluded for him.

“Right,” Dean confirmed, then something else struck him. “And those guys were Goths; I’ll bet at least one of them was wearing a pentagram.” A pentagram wasn’t a true devil’s trap, but it was a protective amulet.

Bobby was silent for a moment. “Let me look into it. There are a few demonic things that don’t leave the usual traces. Better check out that girl, too.”

“The cops don’t even know who she is, yet.”

“And why is that stopping you?”

Sometimes you sound just like my dad, Dean thought, but he would never say such a thing aloud. Bobby would take it all wrong. “It isn’t,” he answered. “Let me know what you find.”

“I will.” Bobby hung up.

Dean stared at his silent phone and uncooperative computer. Suddenly he felt very alone. Sam was who-knows-where. Cas was off searching for God…as if that wasn’t a goddamn snipe hunt. And Bobby. He almost sounded like his old self on the phone. Almost. He was still in the game, but it wasn’t the same. Bobby wasn’t the same.

But he was still one of the smartest hunters Dean had ever met, and that included John Winchester.

Check out that girl.

Dean pulled up the security footage again. He couldn’t hack the police records, but the hotel had been easy. He watched again as the gang of squealing groupies ran down the corridor away from the camera. Then she appeared, walking in the opposite direction. She moved as if she didn’t even see the other girls, her eyes fixed on a point ahead of her. She was kinda pretty, if a bit jailbait. He slowed the footage as she got closer, viewing it frame by frame. There was a look in her eyes in the one clear shot the camera got. A look that made Dean think, yes, she was the killer. It was a look that reminded him, oddly, of Sam.

So who was she?

He hadn’t been able to hack the Madison police network, but there were national and state police databases he did know how to access. Not expecting much, Dean ran a search for missing girls in Wisconsin. After a moment’s thought, he added Illinois, Iowa and Minnesota to the search parameters as well. While he waited for the results, he cracked open a beer and googled the dead rock band: Low Shoulder. They had their own website on MySpace. Of course they did. Dean started one of their songs streaming, but stopped it after thirty seconds, disgusted. Teenage, emo crap.

His search for missing girls got half a million hits.

It took him a while to narrow all that down. It was frustrating, because he kept thinking that Sam would have found the girl in five minutes. It took Dean several hours, but finally he had a name: Anita Lesnicki. He googled her, thinking he might get lucky and find her Facebook page or something. Instead, he found himself staring at an online article from a Minnesota state newspaper. There were two photographs, but without the captions Dean wouldn’t have known they were the same girl.

The first was a school yearbook photograph. It showed a smiling blue-eyed teenager, pretty in spite of her rather ugly glasses, with long blonde hair loose around her shoulders and a gold heart on a chain around her neck. The second picture was fuzzy: a snapshot taken with a cell phone. It showed the girl in handcuffs being led onto a prison transport. Her hair was lank and unwashed and she wasn’t smiling this time. Rather, she stared into the camera, a haunted, angry look.

Dean skimmed the article accompanying the photographs. Anita Lesnicki killed another girl, Jennifer Check. Stabbed her in the heart with a box cutter of all things. There was no clear motive for the murder and Lesnicki refused to explain.

Why would a demon stab a high school cheerleader and then stick around to be arrested? It didn’t make sense. Re-reading the article, the name of the town jumped out at him, because it was such a twisted name: Devil’s Kettle. Then he frowned. He’d seen that name somewhere before.

The Low Shoulder website! He still had the MySpace page open in another window. He switched, and clicked through the links until he found the reference again. The band members had been playing at a club in Devil’s Kettle when a fire broke out. A lot of people died. The band helped some others to escape the flames. After that, they became heroes to the town, and that seemed to help the music sales. They got famous, at least locally. They released a single as a charity thing for the town.

So there was the connection: Low Shoulder were linked to Devil’s Kettle, and that was where Anita Lesnicki lived. But it didn’t explain the slaughter in that hotel.

Dean shut down the laptop and finished his beer. He would get some sleep, and then hit the road.


Devil’s Kettle, Minnesota

Three weeks later than he had planned, Dean drove past a faded wooden sign welcoming him to the small town of Devil’s Kettle, population 7035. The small town, situated a short way north of Lake Superior, took its name from the unique waterfall in the hills above the town. The Brule River split into two; half of it tumbling over an ordinary waterfall and eventually draining into Lake Superior, the other half vanishing into a whirlpool, a hole so deep no one knew where the water ended up. That hole was known as the Devil’s Kettle.

Knowing the origin of the name did nothing to stop the chill that ran through Dean as he sped past the sign. The Devil – the real Devil – was out there and place names like this no longer seemed the least bit amusing.

Dean was three weeks late getting into town because he’d been sidetracked by a gang of demons who were busy partying down in Ohio. Since it was Castiel who alerted him to the party, Dean abandoned his case to drive down and take care of it. Eight exorcisms later he burned and buried the bodies and began to drive north once more. Now, here he was.

He drove past the burned-out wreck of a building and hoped it wasn’t the town’s motel. Someone had erected a chicken-wire fence around the remains, and the fence was covered with flowers and photographs and shit like that. Dean guessed it was some kind of memorial to whoever died in the fire.

It wasn’t the town’s motel. Turned out Devil’s Kettle didn’t have one. That was inconvenient.

Over a burger and fries in the only diner he found, Dean learned that the burned building had been the local music “club”, Melody Lane, and the fence full of flowers was the town’s tribute to Low Shoulder. Dean remembered reading about the fire on the band’s MySpace. Their site described them as the heroes of the evening, risking their lives to pull the good citizens of Devil’s Kettle out of the flames.

Dean had his doubts about that. In his experience, real heroes didn’t boast about their heroism. (Except maybe to get laid.)

The fire, though, that interested him. Nothing in Dean’s research proved the fire was of supernatural origin: the fire department’s official report claimed an electrical short was the most likely origin of the fire, and the volume of flammable liquid (read: alcohol) in the bar combined with the age of the timbers was responsible for the rapid spread. It all sounded very logical, but Dean had his suspicions because of what happened later and because he was always suspicious of fatal fires. Some creatures killed in cycles, decades or even centuries apart. An incident in which a lot of people died sometimes kicked off the next cycle.

Not long after the Melody Lane fire, a high school boy, Jonas Kozelle, was murdered in the woods behind the school. The body was found partially eaten. There was one witness – a teacher who heard screams, investigated and found the body – but no one could figure out what kind of animal killed the boy. That fact alone would have told any hunter it wasn’t an animal at all.

Six weeks later, another high school boy died. Colin Gray’s body was found in an empty house, surrounded by – of all things – nearly a hundred lit candles. It looked like the kid went to a lot of trouble to build his love nest, but something found him before his girlfriend turned up.

Or maybe the something was the girlfriend, Dean thought, remembering it was Anita Lesnicki’s trail which led him to the town.

Chip Dove was murdered two weeks later on the night of the high school prom. Another high school boy, another isolated location, but though there was a hell of a lot of blood, his body wasn’t dismembered or eaten like the other two. Was the creature interrupted? Or was this a different killer? It was difficult to guess.

The final murder victim in Devil’s Kettle was Jennifer Check, high school slut, cheerleader and all-round Dean’s perfect woman. Again, it was hard to guess if her death was part of the pattern. She wasn’t a boy, nor was she dismembered. And she was killed in her own bedroom. In this case, though, the killer was interrupted: her mom walked in and saw it. She identified the killer as Anita Lesnicki. But that was the weird part, to Dean. If Anita Lesnicki was something inhuman, why didn’t she kill the mom, too? And if she wasn’t, why kill the girl who by all reports was her closest friend?

Well, questions like that were why Dean was in Devil’s Kettle. When he left the diner he drove back to that burned-out bar. He parked the Impala a short distance away from the wreckage where he could see the road in both directions, and settled down to watch.

Several people walked by while Dean waited in his car, but it wasn’t until around 4.30 that someone stopped there. They were three girls, all of them high-school age, laughing together as they came down the street. They turned self-consciously serious as they came near to the burned building with its impromptu memorial. One of them, a petite Asian-American girl, pulled a large candle out of her bag. The tallest of the group, a blonde, used a disposable cigarette lighter to set a flame to the candle. Together they placed the candle beneath one of the photographs pinned to the fence. The girls stayed there, silent, huddled into a group together.

Dean grabbed a notebook from under the dash and walked over to where the girls stood. “Hey,” he smiled when he reached them. “I’m Dean Wright, Weekly World News. Can I talk to you, girls?” He flipped open the notebook.

Candle-girl’s eyes lit up. “Sure!” she answered, then the blonde caught her eye and her face fell. “I mean,” she mumbled reluctantly, “I guess so. Depends what you want.”

“What do you want?” the blonde demanded, her tone hostile.

Maybe posing as a reporter hadn’t been the best plan. Dean turned his best winning smile on the blonde. “Hey, I’m not going to quote you if you don’t want me to. I’m just looking to get a feel for how the town is dealing with…” he gestured toward the memorial wall, letting the gesture finish his sentence. This close to the wall he could examine the contents more closely. There were plastic-wrapped photographs of Low Shoulder cut from magazines and newspapers; there were flowers, some real and some plastic, worked into the gaps in the fence; there were cards with handwritten tributes; teddy bears and other stuffed toys; and some weird thing made out of ribbons that Dean just couldn’t figure out. But among all that crap, he saw other things, too: pictures of the high school kids who had died.

Candle-girl spoke up again. “It’s just…hard to take in, you know? I mean, we all loved Low Shoulder and they were so generous to this town. How could someone do that to them?”

Dean nodded, ignoring the question. “I heard they saved some people’s lives in that fire,” he prompted.

“They did! They were so brave…”

“No, they didn’t, Chastity,” the brunette interjected. “I was at Melody Lane that night and I didn’t see them help anyone except – ”

“Just because you didn’t see it, Valerie, doesn’t mean it isn’t true!”

Dean interrupted before it could descend into a cat fight. “Except who, Valerie?”

“It doesn’t matter. No one cares about what really happened.”

Candle-girl – Chastity – pulled at her sleeve. “Val, don’t speak ill of the dead.”

“I care.” Dean smiled winningly. “Your name’s Valerie?”


“You said you didn’t see them help anyone except…?”

Valerie looked at Chastity, then back to Dean. “Jennifer. She went off with them in their van after the fire. She was always doing dumb stuff like that.”

“This Jennifer,” Dean asked lightly. “Do you know where I can find her?”

“In the graveyard,” the blonde said bluntly, confirming Dean’s suspicion.

“Oh!” He tried for mild surprise. “You meant Jennifer Check. I heard about what happened to her. It’s awful.” He paused then added, “Were you friends?”

“Come on,” the blonde said. “Let’s go.”

Chastity looked at Dean again. He could tell she wanted to talk, probably for the chance of getting her name in print. He scrawled his cell phone number in the notebook, ripped out the page and offered it to her. “I’d like to hear more, if you’re interested. Give me a call.”

She took the paper. “Okay.”

It was time to go. “You girls have a nice day,” Dean told them. He headed back to his car, feeling their eyes on him the whole way. He hadn’t learned much, but it was still early. Jennifer Check was connected to Low Shoulder. That was new. And the unfortunately-named Chastity would tell him more when she called. He had no doubt at all that she would call.

Now Dean needed to learn more about Jennifer Check and Anita Lesnicki. He was going to have to talk to the high school cheerleaders. Man, the sacrifices he made for a hunt…


Since Devil’s Kettle had no motel, Dean was sleeping in his car, but the twenty-four hour diner made up for it in spades. The food was cheap, but really good, and they served it piled high. He ordered the breakfast special with coffee and extra pancakes and checked his messages while he waited. There was a voicemail from Bobby, demanding Dean call him when he was done getting laid, which Dean felt was very unfair, considering how slim the pickings were in this town.

Alice, the waitress, showed up with his coffee. Dean thanked her with a smile and called Bobby back.

Bobby had looked up the spell Dean found among Low Shoulder’s books. “It’s real enough,” he confirmed. “Damn nasty little ritual if you ask me.”

Dean frowned, keeping his voice low so he wouldn’t be overheard. “Are you telling me those freaks made a deal with a demon and they get a free pass?” He took that personally. Very personally. Making a deal was one thing. But making someone else pay your due? That was a whole new low.

“Not hardly,” Bobby disagreed. “Virgin sacrifice is just a fancy way to buy a one-way ticket downstairs.”

“Well, that’s something.”

“Thought you of all people wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”

Dean scoffed. “Killing some innocent chick to get famous? I’ve seen some evil, Bobby, but that’s just…”

“Stupid,” Bobby finished for him. “But makin’ a deal’s never smart.”

Dean rolled his eyes, glad the cranky SOB couldn’t see him. “Whatever,” he responded. “Thanks for the info, Bobby.” He flipped his phone closed, ending the call before the conversation could turn into a fight. He sighed, wondering what had Bobby’s panties in a knot this morning.

Alice appeared with his food and Dean dug in enthusiastically. His phone rang and Dean glanced at the display. It was Bobby again. Dean answered it, his mouth full of bacon. “Something else, Bobby?”

“Yeah,” Bobby answered, offering no apology. Dean hadn’t expected one. “Have you heard from Sam in the last few days?”

Dean hesitated. He hadn’t told Bobby Sam’s news about Lucifer. He figured it wasn’t his to tell. In a way, Sam’s news was almost a relief to Dean. If Lucifer needed Sam’s consent to wear him to the prom, he wouldn’t get it. Sam could out-stubborn their father. The Devil didn’t stand a chance.

He cleared his throat, hoping to cover the momentary hesitation. “Uh…he called me about a week ago. He seemed fine. Why?”

“Because he woke me up in the middle of the night, asking about demonic infections.”

“What? Why?”

“Sounded like a hunt. I thought he might have been with you.”

Sam wasn’t supposed to be hunting. Dean’s frown deepened. Sam had told Dean he wanted back in. Was he hunting on his own? That was not good. The last time Sam tried to go it alone he ended up banging Ruby and sucking on demon blood.

“No. Sam’s not here.” Dean took a bite of sausage, waiting for Bobby.

After a moment’s silence, Bobby answered. “Well. Okay, then.” He hung up the phone without saying goodbye.

Dean pocketed his phone and speared the last piece of sausage with his fork. As he popped it into his mouth, he heard the wail of a police siren. Curious, he moved to the diner’s window in time to see a patrol car speed past. “What now?” he muttered to himself.

There was only one way to find out.


Dean had been posing as a journalist for several days, talking to various townspeople about the murders. Anita Lesnicki’s mother refused to talk to him. Dean persisted, since the girl’s mother was most likely to have noticed if she’d been showing signs of possession, but he didn’t really get anything useful from the conversation. Jennifer Check’s mother was more co-operative. She told Dean her version of what happened the night her daughter was killed, though it had the feel of a story she’d already told many times. She heard shouting and walked into her daughter’s room to find her with a box-cutter buried in her heart and Lesnicki straddling her body. One thing stood out: Lesnicki didn’t try to run or hide. Rather, she stayed close to Jennifer’s body until the cops dragged her away. Mrs Check remarked that it was “as if she thought my baby would get up again any moment”.

After the parents, Dean managed to talk with a lot of the kids who knew the murder victims, and even spoke briefly with the teacher who found Kozelle’s body in the woods. All that was good, but it meant his face was known in town as a journalist, so he didn’t think pulling an FBI badge now would be a good idea.

The sound of the sirens led him to the sawmill on the outskirts of town. There was a small crowd gathered near the stacked, uncut timber and Dean saw the inevitable police tape marking off…something. He left the Impala a safe distance away and walked over to join the gathered men.

Dean’s regular clothing matched what most of the men were wearing. He thought he might learn more if he could blend in with the crowd, so instead of trying to engage in conversation he simply joined the group and listened.

It didn’t take long for him to get an idea what was going on.

“…bear attack…”

“…what kind of bear does a thing like…”

“…would have been tracks…”

“…did you fuckin’ see…?”

“…such a mess…”

“…two of them…”

“…like burger meat…”

Dean made his way through the group, hoping to catch a glimpse of the scene. This was a sawmill; maybe whatever happened was just an accident. Just as he reached the tape-barrier, two men emerged from behind the timber, wheeling out something in a body bag. It was obvious right away that it wasn’t a whole, adult body. Either they had a dead child in there, or they’d only found bits and pieces of an adult.

Dean turned away, unable to look at the body-bag. Not because it was horrible – he had seen far worse – but because he felt responsible for that anonymous lump of burger-meat. He knew there was something evil in this town. Whatever was in that body-bag was on his head, because he’d been having too much fun chatting up cheerleaders to be a goddamned hunter! Shit!


There was only one graveyard in Devil’s Kettle.

Dean propped open the Impala’s trunk and filled a bag with the usual tools: spade, salt, gasoline, guns. When he checked out the sawmill after dark, his EMF meter went nuts. There was enough blood left at the scene to give Dean an all-too-vivid picture of what happened to the poor schmuck in the body-bag. He hadn’t seen anything quite like that since he got out of Hell. What he saw among the stacked logs at the sawmill gave him a chill of recognition so strong he almost tossed his cookies. It wasn’t the blood or the dismemberment; Dean had seen enough of that not to be bothered by it. But the sheer joy in the slaughter, that Dean recognised. That he remembered.

He was more sure than ever that there was something demonic in this town, but he was not going to take any more chances. First order of business: he was going to find the graves of the high school kids who died. If there was any hint of EMF in the graveyard, he would salt-and-burn. All of them, if he had to. It wouldn’t be much fun: those kids had been in the ground less than six months. But Dean would do it.

It was a cold night, but the recent rain had softened the ground. It would make the digging easier, but Dean’s boots slipped on the wet grass as he walked between the headstones. The newest part of the graveyard had headstones for Jonas Kozelle and Colin Gray: two of the three dead boys. The third boy had been cremated. It took Dean longer to find a grave for Jennifer Check; it turned out to be a family plot. Evidently the Checks were an old family in Devil’s Kettle.

Dean didn’t need the EMF.

When he saw Jennifer’s grave, Dean’s first thought was some other hunter had found it ahead of him, but he had been doing this too long to trust his first assumption. He trained his flashlight on the broken ground, examining the grave closely. He noted where the ground rose and fell in ridges. He noted the pattern of the earth. He looked around for the place where the earth would have been piled up if someone like him dug up the grave. He didn’t find it. And Dean knew why.

No one dug up this grave.

Something dug itself out.

Part Two

Tags: fandom:jennifersbody, fandom:supernatural, fic:bigbang, fic:het

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