"Where the fuck is he," Michael complained. He flipped open his phone. No texts. No missed calls. In the thick nest of trees behind Camelot Apartments, the chill seeped into his bones.

He considered returning to his apartment for a jacket, but knew his luck dictated that he'd only miss Dean. His wallet sagged in the pocket of his shorts, weighed down with several hundred dollars in a variety of small, crinkled bills.

Dean should have been here by now.

Just as Michael started to leave, a voice drifted into the air.

"Copy."

Michael stopped.

"Dean?"

"Copy!"

Michael laughed. "Okay, what is this? I'm far too sober to fall for one of your little games."

"Copy!" The voice screamed. The voice was ragged, as if each letter tore a part of the throat away.

"Fuck off, Dean!" Michael yelled.

Someone tripped and rolled through the bush. Dusting themselves off, the figure stood, holding something under his arm. He set a can on the ground and snapped a mask onto his face. With a hiss, fog cascaded from the can.

Michael backed away. "Hey man, so you're not Dean."

The figure limped forward. He saw the face, only a small portion was covered by the cheap painter's mask. "Oh, Jesus, dude. What's that?" Michael's vision blurred as a sweet aroma invaded his nostrils. He felt his bowels void as he collapsed.

"Copy," the figure hissed, dropping to his knees and wrapping his hands around Michael's throat. Michael looked to the ground behind him, Dean's shoes on Dean's legs, sticking out of the bushes.

Michael opened his mouth but emitted only a choking sound. He willed his body to fight back, tried to fight back, wanted to fight back but his arms felt as if they weighed two tons.

* * *

Exhausted, the figure stopped and let go of Michael, allowing the blood to rush back to his fingers. His hands felt sore from the cold air. He heard laughter at the edge of the woods, from the direction of the apartment complex. Someone was heading his way.

Retrieving a shovel, the figure scanned the grounds for a place to dig. The examination will have to wait. At least he still had the shorter one down the hill, tucked safely in the back seat of his car under an old flannel blanket.

He paced the ground until he found the perfect spot and stabbed the shovel blade into the earth.