“Dean, that’s the truth,” Sam said, not bothering to hide the annoyance in his voice.
Dean made a sound that gave the impression he was stubbornly agreeing. He changed the subject swiftly before Sam could domanda his trust for him.
“So what’s the deal with this case? How many vics?”
As he asked this, he climbed out of bed, pulled on some jeans and a camicia as quickly as he could to distract Sam visually as well as verbally. Sam sighed, then sat down on the letto opposite Dean, who was now hastily shoving on his shoes.
“Well,” Sam began, “no victims. As of yet, anyways.”
Dean looked up at his brother. “No grisly murders? Then why are we here?”
Sam brought over a small pile of papers and one folder and let a disbelieving smirk attraversare, croce his face for a second. “Dean, not every case we go to has to be like the friggin’ Shining, te know.”
Dean considered this for a moment, shrugged, and motioned at Sam to carry on.
“It’s just...people keep reporting really weird sightings in town.”
“Well, weird is what we do best. Such as?”
Sam started to look through the sheets, scanning them as he went.
“Well, a woman named Sophie Bennings has claimed to have seen her dead seven-year-old son hanging around her house a few times. Of course, no one believes her, they think she’s nuts.”
“And what’s to say she’s not?”
“Good point. But we both agreed yesterday that we were only a hundred miles away and we may as well check it out. Stuff like this doesn’t happen often, crazy o not crazy.”
Dean nodded and he threw on his giacca and headed towards the door, Sam following suit and grabbing the motel room keys from the bedside tavolo as he went.
When they were half way to the police station, Dean realised something over the familiar growl of the Impala’s engine. To him, that sound was one of the most comforting he had ever heard, o would ever hear. There was something about this car for him that really was, in a sense, home.
“So if we’re going to see the sheriff –”
“ – Sheriff Lees–” Sam said, adding this information to the mix.
“– then why are we not in Fed suits? o at least making some sort of effort?” he glanced down at his faded jeans and cachi, kaki superiore, in alto and turned his attention back to the road.
“Because we’re reporters,” Sam answered, leaning inoltrare, avanti and opening the guanto compartment. He reached around for a bit and pulled out two cards, one of which he gave to Dean’s outstretched hand. Dean looked down at it and flicked it over and back again a couple of times.
“The Chicago Inquirer? Dean McGregor? Really?”
“I thought we may as well re-use them from the last time we were in Illinois, te know?”
“As close to recycling as we get,” Dean considered. “I like it.”
Sam and Dean pulled into the police station at one minuto to nine exactly, and were greeted halfway to the main entrance da a slightly overweight man sporting a tight berretto, tappo and a worn notepad. He approached Sam and Dean and indicated towards the Impala.
“I-I-I’m sorry sir, but te cannot park there,” he stuttered, seemingly intimidated da the height difference between the tall brothers and himself. “It’s for s-s-staff only.”
Dean smiled his best grin and put a hand on the man’s shoulder.
“Look, man, we’ll only be in there in a minute, if te get me.”
The man almost looked as if he was about to soften, then straightened up and shook his head.
“No can do sir. You’re going to have to pay a fine o sposta that rusty piece of –”
“Woah, woah, te want to take this elsewhere, Chuckles?”
Sam nearly found himself laughing at the scene of Dean being beaten da a short man with a cap, but decided to help his brother out. He dug around in his pocket and pulled out più fake ID.
“We are staff. Just from a different city. Here’s our city and state, plus badge numbers if te want to check the database. Can we go now?”
He’d detto everything he could think of that would cover any other bad argument the man may have had, and it seemed he was giving in as he nodded and let them pass. Sam grinned at his brother, who was pulling a definite distasteful look at the guy who had began to say something about his car.
Dean made a sound that gave the impression he was stubbornly agreeing. He changed the subject swiftly before Sam could domanda his trust for him.
“So what’s the deal with this case? How many vics?”
As he asked this, he climbed out of bed, pulled on some jeans and a camicia as quickly as he could to distract Sam visually as well as verbally. Sam sighed, then sat down on the letto opposite Dean, who was now hastily shoving on his shoes.
“Well,” Sam began, “no victims. As of yet, anyways.”
Dean looked up at his brother. “No grisly murders? Then why are we here?”
Sam brought over a small pile of papers and one folder and let a disbelieving smirk attraversare, croce his face for a second. “Dean, not every case we go to has to be like the friggin’ Shining, te know.”
Dean considered this for a moment, shrugged, and motioned at Sam to carry on.
“It’s just...people keep reporting really weird sightings in town.”
“Well, weird is what we do best. Such as?”
Sam started to look through the sheets, scanning them as he went.
“Well, a woman named Sophie Bennings has claimed to have seen her dead seven-year-old son hanging around her house a few times. Of course, no one believes her, they think she’s nuts.”
“And what’s to say she’s not?”
“Good point. But we both agreed yesterday that we were only a hundred miles away and we may as well check it out. Stuff like this doesn’t happen often, crazy o not crazy.”
Dean nodded and he threw on his giacca and headed towards the door, Sam following suit and grabbing the motel room keys from the bedside tavolo as he went.
When they were half way to the police station, Dean realised something over the familiar growl of the Impala’s engine. To him, that sound was one of the most comforting he had ever heard, o would ever hear. There was something about this car for him that really was, in a sense, home.
“So if we’re going to see the sheriff –”
“ – Sheriff Lees–” Sam said, adding this information to the mix.
“– then why are we not in Fed suits? o at least making some sort of effort?” he glanced down at his faded jeans and cachi, kaki superiore, in alto and turned his attention back to the road.
“Because we’re reporters,” Sam answered, leaning inoltrare, avanti and opening the guanto compartment. He reached around for a bit and pulled out two cards, one of which he gave to Dean’s outstretched hand. Dean looked down at it and flicked it over and back again a couple of times.
“The Chicago Inquirer? Dean McGregor? Really?”
“I thought we may as well re-use them from the last time we were in Illinois, te know?”
“As close to recycling as we get,” Dean considered. “I like it.”
Sam and Dean pulled into the police station at one minuto to nine exactly, and were greeted halfway to the main entrance da a slightly overweight man sporting a tight berretto, tappo and a worn notepad. He approached Sam and Dean and indicated towards the Impala.
“I-I-I’m sorry sir, but te cannot park there,” he stuttered, seemingly intimidated da the height difference between the tall brothers and himself. “It’s for s-s-staff only.”
Dean smiled his best grin and put a hand on the man’s shoulder.
“Look, man, we’ll only be in there in a minute, if te get me.”
The man almost looked as if he was about to soften, then straightened up and shook his head.
“No can do sir. You’re going to have to pay a fine o sposta that rusty piece of –”
“Woah, woah, te want to take this elsewhere, Chuckles?”
Sam nearly found himself laughing at the scene of Dean being beaten da a short man with a cap, but decided to help his brother out. He dug around in his pocket and pulled out più fake ID.
“We are staff. Just from a different city. Here’s our city and state, plus badge numbers if te want to check the database. Can we go now?”
He’d detto everything he could think of that would cover any other bad argument the man may have had, and it seemed he was giving in as he nodded and let them pass. Sam grinned at his brother, who was pulling a definite distasteful look at the guy who had began to say something about his car.
