Supernatural Series Rewrite- Season 5

Fallen Idols: Part Two

"Did you just give him all that research to do so he wouldn't be out in the world?" you asked Dean as you finished your glass of beer from the bar you two were at.

"He needs it."

"Dean, do you fully trust him? If not, you have to tell him. I may not have been serious about braiding Sam's hair and mud masks, but I was serious about talking about our feelings. It doesn't have to be a girl sesh, but it is healing to do so."

"That's more your thing than mine," he shrugged.

"You know, I'm kind of scared about Amara and what Zachariah showed us," you sighed.

"Me too," he whispered, but you heard him.

"I just don't want to end up that way. I saw the look in my own eyes, and I didn't recognize me. It was all her, and that scares the shit out of me."

"Why didn't you tell me you were having dreams about her?"

"I guess I didn't want you to worry. She talks to me wherever she is, and she says that I need to trust her because she needs me and I am going to need her. She tells me that she isn't bad, but what I saw... that wasn't good. It's the complete opposite of everything she's telling me that she is."

"We'll deal with her when it comes down to it. Who knows, that could be years in the future." Before you had a chance to come up with a reply, Dean's phone rang. He answered it with a curt, "Hello" before putting whoever it was on speakerphone.

"Took me a while, but I traced all the car's previous owners," Sam said on the other line.

"Any of 'em die bloody?" you wondered.

"Nope. In fact—" someone nearby breaks a triangle of pool balls which was loud enough for Sam to hear it. "Are you two in a bar?"

"No, I—I'm—we're in a restaurant," Dean stuttered, and you put your hand over your mouth to silence your giggle.

"Here's your beer," the bartender said when she brought out Dean's refill.

"That happens to have a bar," the older brother said to the younger one.

"I've been working my ass off here."

"Hey, world's smallest violin, pal, I spent the afternoon up Christine's skirt. I needed a drink," Dean sighed.

"Actually, you didn't."

"What does that mean?" you asked.

"The car's first owner was a cardiologist in Philadelphia; drove it 'til he died in nineteen-seventy-two. That Porsche is not, nor has it ever been, James Dean's car. It's a fake Little Bastard."

"Then what killed the guy?"

"Good question," Sam sighed.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"I want you to use a, a fine-tooth comb. The evidence is here, we just gotta find it," Rick instructed one of the crime scent unit gentlemen who just nodded and left to do his job.

There had been another murder taken place at someone's home. GSW to the head, but no bullet, gunpowder, or gun so it was definitely up your alley.

"Heard you got another weird one," you commented to the Sheriff as he pushed past you to exit the room.

"Uh, well, it's a little strange on the surface, I admit, but, uh... you know, once you—you look at the facts..."

"William Hill died from a gunshot wound to the head. No gun, no gunpowder, no bullet," you pointed it out to the nervous man.