Stage of Salvation

3.01 Blood Hungry

AC/DC's "Back in Black" blasts on the radio inside of the fully restored Impala. The car zooms up a two lane, driven by Dean. He's in a great mood, grooving along to his music while I'm in the backseat doodling in my sketchbook to pass the time.
"Whoo! Listen to her purr! Have you ever heard anything so sweet?" Dean muses.
"You know, if you two wanna get a room, just let us know, Dean." I say sarcastically, looking up from my doodle. Dean hears it for the affectionate nudge that it is and plays along.
"Oh, don't listen to the kid, baby. She's new. She doesn't understand us." I roll my eyes.
Sam notes Dean's good mood, and he owns it, saying he's got his car, we've got a case, things are looking up.
"Wow, give you a couple of severed heads and a pile of dead cows and you're Mister Sunshine." Sam comments. It's a light conversation but also a nice contrast.
"How far to Red Lodge?" Dean asks.
"Uh, about another three hundred miles."
"Good." Dean floors it and the three of us enjoy the open road.

In Red Lodge Montana, a sheriff with an impressive mustache is talking to the boys and I, who are posing as reporters to find out about what's going on. The sheriff isn't very forthcoming, so we press him.
"What about the cattle?" I ask.
"Excuse me?"
"You know, the cows found dead, split open, drained over a dozen cases."
"What about them?"
"So you don't think there's a connection?" Sam inquired.
"Connection with?"
"First cattle mutilations, now two murders? Kinda sounds like ritual stuff. You know, like satanic cult ritual stuff?" Dean said. The sheriff bursts into laughter, and then sees the looks on our faces.
"You're not kidding."
"No."
"Those cows aren't being mutilated. There's no no such thing as cattle mutilation. Cow drops, leave it in the sun, within forty eight hours the bloat'll split it open so clean it's just about surgical. The bodily fluids fall down into the ground and get soaked up because that's what gravity does. But, hey, it could be Satan. What newspaper did you say you guys work for?"
"World Weekly News." I say.
"Weekly World News." Sam commented.
"Weekly... I'm new." Dean says reluctantly, trying to give a convincing smile.
"Get out of my office." The sheriff ordered and we do just that.

We enter the morgue, still wearing our outfits from the police station but now also in white lab coats as we now pull off being doctors. But first we have to get rid of the young intern on duty who has a name tag that reads "J. Manners." Dean looks at it, calculating. He attempts a bluff, taking a chance on the 'J'.
"John..."
"Jeff." The intern corrects.
"Jeff, right, I know that. Dr. Dworkin needs to see you in his office right away." Dean lied. Jeff points out that Dr. Dworkin is on vacation, but Dean rolls with it. "Well, he's back. And he's pissed, and he's screaming for you, man, so if I were you I would..." Off goes the intern. Mission accomplished. Sam provides some background information that Satanists in Florida marked their victims with a reverse pentacle.
"So much fucked up shit happens in Florida." Dean remarks, shaking his head. Dean hands Sam and I a pair of latex gloves and puts on a pair of his own; Sam opens a compartment and wheels out a corpse; there's a box between its legs. Neither of us wants to open the box that contains the woman's head, which frankly is totally understandable.
"You two are both big wusses." I say with a sigh. I carry the box over to another table and flip off the lid, grimacing. Sam and Dean approach, cringing. There's no reverse pentagram and Dean suggests that we should look in her mouth in case anything's in there ala Silence of the Lambs. "Alright, go ahead then. Be our guest."
"No, you go ahead." Dean argues back at me.
"Guess I'll do it." Sam offers. Sam steels himself and pries open her mouth and starts feeling around, then asks us for a bucket.
"You found something?" Dean asked.
"No, I'm gonna puke." Sam replies.
"Me too. I think I just vomited in my mouth a little bit." I remark. Dean instructs Sam to lift her lip up further, and Sam grimaces.
"What, you want me to throw up?"
"No, I think I saw something." He pulls back the lip.
"What the hell is that, a hole?" I inquired. Dean presses on the gum and a narrow, sharp tooth descends. My eyes widened in surprise.
"It's a tooth."
"That's a fang. Retractable set of vampire fangs." Dean tells us. And the plot of our case thickens.