The Impala idled at the curb, engine ticking softly as it cooled. Dean leaned back against the hood, arms crossed, eyes on the quiet suburban house in front of them. White siding. Perfectly manicured lawn. An American flag on the porch, bleached pale from sunlight. Normal enough to make his skin itch.
“I’m just saying,” Dean muttered, glancing sideways at his brother, “guy drops dead in his living room, no signs of forced entry, no witnesses. Could be a stroke. Could be his wife poisoned him. Doesn’t automatically scream ‘monster.’”
Sam shut the car door a little harder than necessary and adjusted his jacket. “Except this is the third guy to die of an 'aneurysm' in this town in the last two weeks. And the neighbors heard screaming before everything went quiet.”
Dean snorted. “People scream all the time. Ever been to a karaoke bar?”
Sam shot him a look. “Dean.”
“Fine,” Dean said, pushing off the car. “But if this turns out to be a local company poisoning the water or something, I’m blaming you. Again.”
They walked up the path together. The house felt wrong up close; too still, like it was holding its breath. Dean took the lead, knocking firmly on the door, then flashing a badge the second footsteps approached from inside.
“Federal agents,” Dean said smoothly when the door cracked open. “We’re sorry to bother you, but we just have a few questions about the recent death of Mr Miller.”
Behind him, Sam’s expression softened, voice quieter, steadier. “We know this is a hard time. We’ll try to be quick.”
Dean glanced sideways at Sam. Yeah. Empathy. Sam had that covered.
