The Song Remains The Same

Chapter 22

“There’s only one vacation spot on earth worth visiting,” Dean said enthusiastically.

“And where’s that?” I asked.

“Vegas! Dancing girls, blackjack, all the liquor you could possibly consume,” he began. He stopped when he saw the look on my face.

“Yes, let’s visit vegas and you and Sam can go see the dancing girls while I go see the Chippendale dancers,” I said sarcastically, a smirk on my face.

“Fine by me. Just remember, you can look but you can’t touch,” he teased.

I grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him towards me so that his lips were inches from mine. “Is that so?” I said playfully before pulling him closer and gently kissing him on the lips.

That gentle kiss suddenly turned fervent and I felt the bed sink under Dean’s weight as he leaned in closer, using one hand for balance. He pulled away after a moment and sighed.

“You’re a tease, you know that?” he demanded playfully. “How am I supposed to pack when I’d really like to be making a mess of the bedsheets?”

“You just have a way with words,” I joked breathlessly. “You just know how to make a girl go all soft, don’t ya?”

Dean rolled his eyes and pushed himself up off the bed. “Would you rather me tell you I’d like to fu-” he began.

“Alright, point taken,” I said, interrupting him before he could go any further.

“Exactly,” he said while shoving the last pair of pants into his duffel bag. He grabbed his duffel bag and jacket, and I my own bag, and we went into Sam’s room.

“You ready?” Dean asked.

“Yep,” he said with a nod.

We locked our rooms up then. Sam gave me his key and I took ours from Dean and went to the office to turn them in while Sam and Dean threw their things in the trunk.

The open road stretched out in front of us as we sped off towards Georgia. I’d never been on a job there, but there was a first time for everything, right?

***

“Hello, my name is Special Agent James Hetfield. These are my partners, Special Agents Lauren Bacall and Michael Jones. We were hoping to ask you a few questions about the recent Murders of the Dixon family,” Dean said as we stood before the sheriff of Americus, Georgia, a potbellied man named Roger Knightly. The three of us were exhausted and uncomfortable in our cheap suits, but if we wanted to get up and running, we had to start investigating whether we liked it or not.

Dean flashed his badge and Sam and I followed closely behind, flashing our newly cobbled IDs. The sheriff raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything as we tucked our badges into the inner pockets of our suit jackets.

On the outside I feigned hate for the outfits I had to wear as a hunter, but I actually quite enjoyed them. Mom had given me my first suit when I was sixteen, the day I decided to be a hunter. I still remember what it felt like, the feel of the fabric against my skin, the foreignness of nylon stockings against my legs, the odd but not unpleasantness of me being in a skirt. That feeling was what compelled me to always wear the same style suit when I impersonating a federal agent; a white button-down, a black blazer and pencil skirt.

“What does the FBI want with a open and shut case?” the sheriff demanded.

“Excuse me?” I asked. “Open and shut?”

“The Dixon’s employed a housekeeper that had a key. Friends and neighbors of the Dixon’s said that she had an argument with William Dixon, the father, earlier that day and that this was a regular occurrence.”