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Day 1. Harvest.
Machete held low and steady at his side, Dean placed his steps carefully as he moved through the old house. Behind him, Cas was following his movement exactly, stepping in the same places to avoid creaking floorboards. The halls were gloomy despite the autumn sunshine outside, a dark wallpaper stretching into oblivion in front of him.
Candlelight flickered under a door a few metres away, the murmur of voices now recognisable as words and not merely sound.
Dean glanced back at Cas and raised his hand to signal the door. Cas, barely inches from Dean, made a face like he was about to roll his eyes (which made Dean roll his eyes) and then nudged him in the side.
Hurry up then.
When Cas had suggested they check out the vampire-esque deaths in this small town, Dean had been wary. As an angel, Cas had been formidable; now that he was human, Dean couldn’t help but worry he was going to turn around to find Cas on the floor, throat ripped out, staring lifelessly at him.
He didn’t share these concerns with Cas (he wasn’t suicidal) but Sam had assured him that it was probably a normal worry for someone who had been ageless and bled light, and now sometimes struggled with the toaster while half asleep and wearing only pyjama pants.
Dean edged to the door and Cas moved out from behind him, flanking the door with his own machete ready to swing.
From the other room, Dean caught snippets of the discussion.
“Is the harvest ready?”
“Yes, mother. They’re in the kitchen waiting.”
“This sample looks … delicious. Ripe and dying to nourish us, aren’t you dear?”
Fuck.
They were out of time.
Dean grabbed the handle, throwing the door open in a blur and rushing the room, machete held tightly in his hand.
Before he could take another step, screams erupted from the – quick count – seven women and a shrieked “What the fuck,” rang out that had him throwing out his arm to stop Cas’ entry in its tracks.
Something was off.
The room was dark as expected, but on the long dining table in the centre of the room, several candles had been lit around the object in the centre, and Dean realised he was staring at, not a human offering like he was expecting, but a rather large pumpkin.
He looked back at the group of women, who were now huddled in the furthest corner of the room, and took in their clothes; all of them wore long dresses with bare feet, and they all had identical looks of confusion and fear on their faces.
“Who are you? What do you want?” said one of the women in a shaky-yet-resolute voice. She was shorter than the others but Dean knew from experience that it was the short girls you had to watch out for; the human equivalent of Little Dog Syndrome.
Before Dean could respond, Cas rumbled from beside him, “We’re ridding this world of vampire filth like you.”
Two of the women laughed, and then immediately paled as they glanced at the machete. Dean tracked their gaze, watching the shifting expressions and the unspoken look between the women that seemed to say, ‘Be careful, these guys are armed and clearly insane.’
A quick scan of the rest of the room revealed a tripod on the other side of the table, with a phone mounted and one of those circular lights on top.
Fuck.
Dean lowered the machete, his gut twisting.
“Uh,” he said, making a cover story on the fly. “You’re not the group LARPing as vampires I guess?”
“What?” snapped the short woman, at the same time as Cas said “What?” beside him.
Dean forced himself to relax, slipping into his casually cocky demeanour. He smiled, making sure it radiated embarrassment.
“We’re part of a LARPing group, we uh, we’re supposed to be vampire hunters tracking down a nest…”
The women started to relax. One of them, a red head, spoke with clear derision.
“We’re not a ‘LARP’ group, we’re a gothic-cottage-core coven.”
Fuck.
*
“So, a coven of witches?” said Cas thoughtfully as Dean lifted the impala’s trunk and threw his unused machete back in. “What does ‘gothic-cottage-core’ mean though?” He handed Dean his own machete, looking back at the old house. “Witch killing bullets?”
“They’re not witches, Cas – not our kind of witches anyway.” Dean dropped the trunk and then leaned against it, folding his arms. “They’re just – what did Rowena call it again? Instagram witches, I think. In it for the aesthetic,” he added in response to Cas’ head tilt.
“So not vampires either then?”
“Nope. Back to square one.”
His ringtone interrupted the sigh he knew Cas was building up to, and he glanced at the caller ID before answering.
“Sammy, we got jack over here. Just a bunch of pumpkin spice lattes.”
“What? What does that mean?”
“You know, like the drink – like the fall Starbucks of choice for wom – you know what, never mind. Not important.”
“Anyways, Dean listen – I think I found something.”
Sam’s voice on the phone sounded way more excited than Dean had been expecting considering Sam’s task had been talking to the coroner (again) in case there was any indication where the bodies originated from.
“One of the ladies who found the second body said they’d just started harvesting –”
Dean groaned. Cas raised his eyebrows.
“I swear to god, Sam, if you say pumpkins –”
“What do pumpkins – no, never mind. I’ll meet you and Cas over at the Jennings’ farm, I have a lead.”
Dean pocketed his phone and looked over at Cas, who was still leaning against the side of the impala and watching him with raised eyebrows.
“More instagram witches sacrificing vegetables?” he asked, deadpan but unable to fully stifle the smirk tugging at his mouth. Dean felt a dual rush of affection and annoyance, rolling his eyes in mock exasperation.
“Just … get in the car, Charlie Brown.”