Crossroads - Supernatural Rewrite

Dead Man's Blood

Dean sat at the worn diner table, flipping through a local newspaper with a faint scowl on his face, skimming another headline that led nowhere. Sam sat across from him, hunched over his laptop beside Kat—a couple of news clippings scattered in front of her, her brow furrowed in mild frustration.

With a sigh, Dean folded the paper and tossed it aside. "All right, dude," he said, his tone dry, "not a decent lead in all of Nebraska. What've you got?"

Sam didn't look up. "I've been scanning Wyoming, Colorado, South Dakota..." He paused, fingers tapping over the keys. "Uh, here's something. A local man in Colorado—Daniel Elkins—was found mauled in his home."

Kat's head snapped up. "Elkins?" Her eyes flicked to Dean, whose reaction mirrored hers.

"I know that name." He said with quiet recognition.

Kat reached for her mother's journal. The leather cover creaked as she opened it, her fingers quickly flipping through the worn pages, eyes scanning for the familiar name.

Sam shook his head. "Doesn't ring a bell for me." He went on, "It sounds like the police don't know what to think. First they said it was some sort of bear attack, and now they've found signs of robbery."

Dean reached for John's journal, thumbing through the entries with practiced ease. "Here. Check it out." His finger landed on a scrawled name and number: D. Elkins – 970-555-0158

Kat's brow furrowed, she turned her mother's journal and slid it toward the brothers. There it was again—Elkins, marked in delicate cursive beneath a list of contacts.

Dean stared for a moment, then let out a quiet, "Huh."

Sam leaned in. "You think it's the same Elkins? You think they both knew him?"

Dean nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving the name. "It's a Colorado area code, and the same spelling in both journals."

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The Impala rumbled down the lonely stretch of highway, its black frame slicing through the fading light, snow-capped mountains painting the landscape. Sam sat in the passenger seat, his hand slipping behind him to wrap around Kat's calf like it belonged there. They'd been like that for days— inseparable like magnets.

Every glance turned into a stare. Every brush of skin lingered. They couldn't stop touching—his hand on her thigh, their legs tangled when they sat too close.

Dean kept his eyes locked on the road ahead, jaw tight. He could feel them beside him—their closeness. Normally, he'd have cracked a joke by now, told them to get a room, anything to break the tension pressing in on him. But lately, he just didn't have it in him.

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The cabin door creaked open and the three of them slowly walked in, flashlight slicing through the dark. Kat followed closely behind Dean who was in the lead, hand instinctively brushing over the piece tucked in the back of her jeans.

Dean's eyes scanned the wreckage, "Looks like the maid didn't come today."

"Hey," Sam called softly, crouching near the door. "There's salt over here, right inside the door."

Kat moved to his side, looking down. "A protection ring,"

Sam stood, brushing his hands on his jeans. "You think this guy Elkins was a player?"

"Had to be," Kat muttered, taking a few slow steps around the room.

Dean flicked open a worn leather bound journal he found on a splintered table, flipping through the brittle pages.