Sam and Dean left the house soon after, and they got in the car. Dean shoved a cassette tape of Black Sabbath in and began to wind down the road as he turned the música up, deep in thought. He had so many things to think about right now, and a more-complicated-than-the-usual-drill case hadn’t really been what he was hoping for as they drove to the segundo victim’s house. It hadn’t gotten weird enough to call Cas, at least not yet, and therefore not weird enough for any más dick ángeles to get involved either, which he supposed was a good thing. Dean’s mind was full enough with worrying about Sam, trying to stop seals breaking and attempting to block out unwanted memories from his time down under without ángeles throwing the apocalypse in there. He looked across at the passenger asiento at his brother, who had wound down the window and was enjoying the breeze of the wind in the uncomfortable summer heat. If Dean hadn’t been Dean, he wouldn’t have picked up anything, but there was something in his expression that was just so...cold. He couldn’t place it, exactly, but there had been a secretive air about him for a couple of months now, and Dean hated the feeling of being kept in the dark, especially after confiding in Sam in the situations he had felt the worst in his life. And now Sam couldn’t return the favour? It didn’t make sense, and it certainly wasn’t Sam to do that.
When the brothers reached the house of Isabella Henley, it was hitting three o’clock, and the sun was at its highest. Since she’d lived alone, Sam had no problem picking the lock of the front door and stepping over the crime scene banner that the police and stuck from one side of the door to the other, and Dean followed him in. Seeing as there was no one to interview, this would both be easier and harder to find information from; they had no one watching over them as they looked around, but on the other hand they had no one to ask in case they’d seen anything – all they had were the files on Isabella. Dean ran his hand along the mantelpiece of the tidy hallway.
“So what have tu got?”
Sam dug inside his bag and pulled out the file on Isabella, his eyes flicking through the pages, then stopped.
“Huh. How in the hell did we not see this before?”
Dean paused and walked over to his side; he had long since dado up the days of trying to look over his tall brothers shoulders.
“What is it?”
Sam raised his eyebrows, turned back a page, and then returned to the anterior one again, apparently surprised.
“Isabella Henley died without any family alive; she wasn’t married, and there’s no record of her ever having had a child, let alone a son.”
Dean frowned as he digested the information, opened his mouth, closed it again, then drew a breath.
“But...she saw her son before she died, right?”
“According to the sheriff both victims did, yeah.”
“A son she never had.”
Dean looked around the spotless living room as if the house were hiding a secret it was about to reveal to unravel the whole mystery. This was getting weirder.
“That can’t be right. What the hell?”
“I don’t know.”
“No, seriously dude, what the hell?”
“I don’t know!”