𝐌𝐀𝐅𝐈𝐀™

06.┊𝙲𝙰𝚁𝙴𝙵𝚄𝙻 𝚆𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝚆𝙸𝚂𝙷 𝙵𝙾𝚁 ༉‧₊˚✧

┌─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───┐

𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚔𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚜 𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚗.
𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎.

└─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───┘

"DAMN DEAN, I guess this is why they say be careful what you wish for."

Instead of chuckling, Dean sucks in a harsh breath. "I'm calling this in."

You didn't blame him for not making a comment on your joke. This was no laughing matter, because there in front of you lay Harold Jenkins. Dead and bloodied on the carpet floor.

The blood was dry. You suspect it happened over an hour ago. Within that time period, the killer would have been long gone.

Victim had been stabbed by multiple different sharp objects. When walking into the home, you noted that it was clearly trashed. Could possible be a home invasion, you note. But, why go through such lengths to kill someone for goods? Typical home invasions involve a swift blow or gunshot to the head.

Then, the next best option: this was a crime of passion. Someone must have had it in for poor Mr. Jenkins. If that was the case, you guessed he was still up to no good after 12 years in prison.

As Dean made the call, you carefully inspect the body. Making sure to step a few feet away, when you circled around, as to not destroy any potential evidence. Taking your phone out and swiping to camera, you zoom into the stab wounds. There were so many of them, weapons still laid into him. The blood ran down his face, so it could only mean he was stabbed while he was upright.

Still, you had so many questions. Most you assumed couldn't be answered, even through an abundance of forensic tests and diagnostics.

Something about the whole murder scene reminded you of something. It was on the tip of your tongue, lingering towards itching and annoying. Biting your lip, you type down everything you could note on your phone.

Thinking the thought might come to you, if you asked Dean, you turn to look behind you. He's glancing at the walls. Minding the decor and watching every detail he comes across. It makes you realize the bigger picture. Which was that, the house was empty. It was void of any real personality or character.

In many homes, family pictures or portraits would be shown. If living alone, a messy stack of papers or little knick-knacks here and there. As a matter of fact, the Jenkins' estate seemed similar to an IKEA home display. Vacant of any, if at all, essence of human.

Eyes flicking to Dean's face, it's present that he's thinking the same thing.

"So, it's clear Jenkins had something else going on, but what could it be? When we figure that out, we can list down possible suspects." Breaking the silence, your brow arched in Dean's direction. "You thinking a sort of drug scuffle?"

He tilts his head, contemplating the possibility. "There's a chance. Though, we can't narrow it down to just that."

Nodding, you add to Dean's thoughts. "Maybe, he hid something in this house. A secret bunker or under the floorboards possibly?"

"I was thinking that too. I know you noticed as well, the fact that this house looks like something out of a TV commercial. I don't know, it's giving me a bad vibe. It's too-" Dean stops, searching for the right words.

"Perfect?" You suggest.

"Yeah," Dean nudges you a bit, motioning outside to wait for backup. "Once, forensics come in and grabs the data, I'm heading back here to look for more clues. You in?"

Snickering a bit, you grin, "Are you kidding? You don't even have to ask, I'm definitely in." Taking a seat on the steps, Dean follows suit. The two of you sit there for a while, waiting as the cops who answered Dean's call in.

The sun was setting by now. Due to the unforeseen traffic while heading over to Jenkins' house, the trip was far longer than expected. It would be calming and beautiful in a different scenario. You know, if there wasn't a dead body in the house behind us and we weren't waiting for the cops to show up, you think. Still, watching the sunset was relaxing.

The forgotten thought you couldn't recall comes back to you. "Dean?"

"What's up?"

"Did that murder scene remind you of something? It's weirdly familiar to me, but I can't seem to figure it out."

"Huh," Dean hums, thinking. There's quiet for a few solid minutes. "Actually, now that I think about it, it did."

Curiously, you reply, "What is it?"

Shaking his head, Dean refuses to tell you. "You're going to make fun of me, if I tell you."

"Oh, come on!" You scoff, "Dean, I'm being serious here! Just tell me!" Each of your words were empathized with a hard tap on his shoulder.

"No."

Not believing how he's acting right now, you flick his forehead. "Stop acting like a little kid, Dean. Spit it out."

Caressing the spot where you flicked him, Dean whines. "You didn't have to hit me." You can tell he's being dramatic, his smile peering through the fake pout.

"You were being little bitch about it, though." Only shrugging in defense, you urge Dean to tell you. "Tell me or I'm going to flick you again."

"Fine!" He huffs out. "It reminds me of that one iron chair in Game of Thrones."

Without realizing it, you started snickering. "Dean, what the fuck?" It turns into a full on cackle, when Dean starts describing his stupid thoughts.

"See, now you're back to your usual self." Dean grins. A sentimental look on his face, as he watches you calm down from laughing.

Rolling your eyes, you knock your shoulder with his. "What are you going on about?"

Pushing you back with his shoulder, Dean explains, "Well, I know you'd get sad after every crime scene. Even if you've never told me, I can tell. You feel bad about them dying, though you don't know them personally. In your eyes, a life is a life. No matter who they are."

You're speechless. Dean's confession was from the bottom of his heart, you knew that. He was never the type to say things like that. Plus, you've gotten used to seeing the gory sights. It was your job after all, maybe at first you felt sick, but you never knew anyone noticed.

"Dean..."

"Yeah?"

"Stop being mushy," shoving him with your shoulder, he gets knocked into the grass. "It doesn't suit you."

The collision throws Dean on his back. It wasn't too rough that it would hurt him, you made sure not to hit him too hard. His forearms lift his upper body, as he throws you a glare. "Hey! That's called abuse!"

Your laughter's apparently contagious, because soon Dean's laughing with you.

Once, forensics arrive you had to explain why Dean was covered in dirt, grass pieces in his hair and why they caught you two wheezing uncontrollably.

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