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I chose not to tag along on the next case, thinking the lead was quite a stretch. The boys came home a week later with an interesting a story about a girls private school's drama club production of our lives. The missing teacher that started the hunt, ended up being taken by a a Goddess, obsessed with performance arts.
I was sorry to have missed it, but I needed time alone. Time to think. Research. Nothing was bringing me anything but frustration to no end. A short stack of tomes on angels, and theoretical information on Heaven lay discarded sloppily to the side as I decided to open a laptop instead.
My brothers had just begun to get up and moving for the morning. I could hear Dean shuffling in the kitchen but hadn't seen him yet. Sam on the other hand, sauntered right up beside me and examined the books I'd so bitterly given up on before he sat down with me. "Still looking, huh?"
"Nope," I retorted harshly, scrolling away through online newspapers.
I heard him sigh, and just barely feel his annoyingly heavy pity splashing at me. "I'm sorry, Hazel," he breathed gently.
I shrugged, not willing to feel sorry myself anymore or say anything about it.
"I told him not," he continued, as if I blamed him too, "And I'm pissed at him too."
"Oh, you're not on the we can fix anything boat with Dean?" I toyed, finally looking at him and his big, dumb puppy face.
He tightened his face. "Not about this..."
"Good."
"Good?"
"Yeah. We can all stop worrying about the harmless yet inevitable problem I have, then. And move on."
"That's it? You're just...accepting it?"
"Maybe..." I muttered, knowing full well I had a back up plan festering in the dark corners of my mind. "I just...for once don't want to be you guys' problem. For once, this is just about me. Not the world. Not you."
"Ok.." he agreed dryly, "You're right. I'll drop it. Try to convince Dean, too..." He cleared his throat of emotion and leaned over to look at the computer screen with me, "looking for a case?"
"Found one," I corrected, "I think. Three guys - known drug dealers in Kansas City, found dead in the last two weeks with quote 'vicious bites to the neck.' No autopsies yet, but cops are thinking a hit man might be using a dog."
"Hmph...But you don't?"
"I know dealers, Sam," I reminded him, "they're not that creative or patient. They want their grunts dead, its a bullet, not Cujo. Also...there were a couple mysterious beheadings this last month."
His brows climbed with intrigue. "Vamps killing vamps?"
"Yeah...My guess? We got a nest hooked on junky blood. And maybe the big dealer is a hunter, or a vamp themself."
