Chapter 2

It's dark when Dean wakes, the neon sign outside the motel a faint glow through the curtains. There's a Sam-shaped shadow on the end of the other bed, pulling on a pair of jeans.

"Going somewhere, Sammy?" Dean mumbles, still half asleep.

Sam's head turns, but he says nothing. He stands and walks across the room.

The familiar clink as weapons move against one another jolts Dean fully awake, and he sits upright. "What are you doing?" There's a small bundle of cloth in Sam's fist. "Sam? What the hell, man?"

Sam ignores him and heads for the door.

Dean trips over himself as he leaps out of bed and reaches for his jeans. By the time he catches up, Sam's out on the street. "What the hell are you doing?" He grabs Sam by the arm.

Sam shrugs him off, his long stride carrying him quickly away.

Dean skips ahead. "We're gonna talk about this. We're gonna work this out before I let you go any further."

Sam shoves Dean out of the way, putting all his weight and bulk behind it. Dean stumbles back, rights himself, and stares daggers at Sam's back. "Hell no."

He catches Sam in two strides, grabs his arm and pulls it up behind his back. Dean throws his weight forward, and Sam hits the ground. "Good to know I can still drop you like a stone, little brother."

The street light above them flickers as Sam grunts and tries to throw Dean off. Back at the motel the neon sign fizzes, sparks, and dies.

Sam's struggles cease and he goes limp, cheek hitting the pavement, mouth going slack. The knife rolls out of his hand.

Dean's heart leaps into his throat. "Sam?" He rolls away, turns Sam over. "Sammy?"

---

Dean dumps Sam onto the bed. There's blood on Sam's shirt, and Dean tears it down the front, cringing when he sees stitches torn clean through flesh. "Damn it."

Sam moans and shifts. "Dean?"

Dean's head jerks up. "Sam? God, don't ever do that again. You scared the crap outta me."

"What the hell happened?" Sam tries to sit up. He stiffens, groans, and lowers himself back down again. "Feels like I got hit by a truck." His hand reaches for his belly, and Dean bats it away.

"You got hit by me. You went AWOL, and it wasn't until the lights went crazy that I figured it out. You had a ghost in you, Sam. It walked you outta here and I had to drop you before you stopped." Dean gets up, comes back with the first aid kit. "Sorry about the stitches."

Sam lifts his head, pulls a face. "She was going back to the house," he says.

Dean cleans the blood off Sam's skin, slow and methodical. "We burned the bones."

"But you brought the knife back with us." Sam closes his eyes, relaxes as Dean works. "And the knife must be what's keeping her here."

"Then how come we aren't mincemeat? She could have hacked us up in our sleep, instead she wears you like a suit and takes off?" His eyes flick to the fabric-wrapped knife on the nightstand. He reaches out, carefully unwraps it.

It's still covered in Sam's blood, threads from his shirt stuck to the blade. On one side of the handle, scratched into the gray paint, are the letters 'JG'. The brand name is embossed on the opposite side. "What the hell is she doing haunting a knife? This wasn't even around when she died." Dean puts a bandage over the wound on Sam's belly. Two of the stitches tore, and it's not worth putting them back in again. "You're gonna need to take it easy."

Sam pulls himself up the bed, sits gingerly against the pillows. "So what now?"

Dean shrugs. "We destroy it." The lights flicker and Dean stiffens. "Or not." He gets up, takes the knife with him, crouches by his bag. He pulls out a tin of salt and peels off the cap.

The light overhead sizzles and pops, and the room goes dark. Dean dumps the entire tin on top of the knife, wraps it back up. "Or we get some sleep and take it back to the house tomorrow, then burn the place to the ground."

---

They get curious stares when they walk into the only diner in town and find a table. Sam moves carefully, nursing his injuries. He looks tense.

"Chill," Dean says under his breath. "You trying to scare the locals?"

Sam glances down at where Dean's jacket pocket bulges with the weight of the knife. "Why'd you have to bring it with us?"

"It's salted, Sammy. She's not going anywhere, but I need to eat before we go back." Seeing the waitress approach from the corner of his eye, Dean looks up, gives her his brightest smile.

She's young, pretty. Her blue eyes widen, and pink spreads across her cheeks. "Um—"

Dean glances at the name tag pinned to her blouse. "Hi, Anne. Bacon, eggs. And coffee."

"I'll have the same," Sam says, distracted as he swaps the menu for the morning paper. There's a picture of an old house surrounded by cornfields on the front page.

"It's awful, isn't it?" Anne says, pointing at the newspaper with her pen. "Every few years it happens again."

Sam lifts his head. "Did you know the kids who died?"

She shakes her head, blonde ponytail swinging. "Not these two. The ones before that, Bridget and Jake? I knew them. They were like Romeo and Juliet, you know?"

"They weren't allowed to see each other?" Sam leans forward, all his attention on the girl. "Their parents tried to keep them apart." He sounds like he's just had an epiphany.

Anne nods. "It was Bridget's dad. Everyone knows everyone else here. They had to find places where no one would see them. I guess they used to go there. Then the police found their bodies. It was awful."

Dean leans across the table once Anne is gone. "Well, there's her reason. Another girl whose daddy didn't want her going out with the wrong guy."

Sam's eyes are back on the newspaper. "The other three times it happened, they were all boys."

Dean shrugs. "So what's the latest on the latest?"

"The local sheriff has decided it's some kind of suicide pact. They want the house demolished."

"I can't argue with them," Dean says. "It would stop anyone going in. I can't believe they haven't done it yet."

Sam huffs out a laugh, then winces and puts his hand over his stomach where the stitches tore. "Turns out the mayor owns the place, and he doesn't want it torn down."

Dean frowns, leans over the table. "You okay, Sammy?"

Sam nods, but a hint of pain shows on his face. "I'm okay." He swallows, hard. "I think we should talk to the cops before we do anything else, Dean. There's stuff that doesn't add up."

---

The sheriff's station is a small building, as generic and plain as every other small town sheriff's station they've ever seen. When Sam and Dean go inside, they're met with raised voices drifting out of the back office.

They walk up to the counter and wait as a young deputy answers the ringing phone. He's obviously stressed, and as he speaks into the handset, he looks them up and down, an expression of hope in his eyes.

When the deputy puts down the phone, Dean pulls out the badge that goes with the suits they're wearing and flips it open on the desk. "I figure you know why we're here," he says, trying to keep the smile off his face as the deputy gives him a look that's part terror, part relief.

"The kids that died, right? Nothing else ever happens that the FBI would come here for." He glances back at the office door, then shoots Dean an apologetic look. "The sheriff has the mayor back there. Kids have been dying in that house for ten years, you'd think Mayor Rook would do something." The deputy looks back over his shoulder when the men inside the office go quiet. "I'll let Sheriff Hammond know you're here."

The sheriff eyes Sam and Dean when he appears. He must be in his sixties, at least. He's balding, but solidly built and almost as tall as Sam. "Look, Bill," he says to the man that walks out behind him. "It's the feds come to see why kids keep dying in your house."

The second man is gray-haired and older still, his face a map of lines. He scowls, walks right past Sam and Dean without a backward glance.

"Don't mind him," the sheriff says. "He's got an irrational attachment to a pile of crap that should have been torn down years ago." He looks them up and down. "What can I do for you?"

"We want everything you've got on this house," Dean says. "See if we can't figure out why kids keep dying there, and who's responsible."

A flash of worry appears in the sheriff's eyes. "Look, guys. All we want from Mayor Rook is for him to agree to the demolition. His great-grandfather built the place. It's the oldest house in town and he was born there, so he's attached. It's not his fault these stupid kids think it's cool to off themselves in it."

"We're not looking at him," Dean says. "We just want the truth."

Sam, silent so far, steps forward. "We want to figure out where this all started," he says. "Why it keeps happening. We'd appreciate any help you could give us."

The sheriff stares at him, blank faced. Then he nods. "Anything you need."

---

The evidence lockup at the sheriff's station is a broom closet with a dead-bolt. Four boxes, each labeled with a date and 'Rook House - Murder-Suicide' come out, and they take them into the sheriff's office.

The young deputy leans against the desk, watching Sam and Dean as, one by one, they lift the lids off and put them aside.

Dean goes straight for the first box. There's a stack of paper on top, and he hands it off to the deputy. "Can we get copies of these?"

"Sure."

Dean pulls a plastic bag out of the box. The label says it should contain the knife used to kill Devon James, but it's empty.

"What the hell?" The deputy peers into the box. He pulls out another empty plastic bag. "Oh my god."

"I've got the same." Sam holds his empty bags up as proof. He takes the stack of paper out of the next box and looks inside. "And again."

Dean checks the last box. "Nothing." He glances at the deputy. "The evidence is gone, man. I hope you got photos."

The deputy's eyes are wide and his face is pale. "Yeah. Yeah, they're right here." He grabs the four stacks of paper, gets to his feet and heads for the door. "I'll get these copied for you."

"Did you take samples?" Sam says before he disappears. "Blood, skin."

The deputy turns. "Yeah. They never went to the lab, though. There was no need."

"Send them," Dean says. "Oh, and Deputy? You ever get weird stuff happen around here? Lights flickering, cold spots, strange noises?"

The deputy gives him a puzzled look. "Had to get the wiring looked at the other day. Turned out there was nothing wrong with it."

"Okay, thanks, Deputy. Could I have a minute with my partner?"

"The knife," Sam says, once they're alone. "It's the same one. For all four killings."

"Yep." The knife in Dean's pocket seems so much heavier now. "She's been riding cops out of here with the stuff. How much you wanna bet the rope's back at the house, too?"