Archive of Our Own

Dean Winchester is singing and swaying as he mixes up a bowl of pancake batter in the kitchen of the underground bunker he calls home, and every time the chorus repeats, he holds his dripping spoon like a microphone and belts, "I'm wanted dead or alive!"

Dean isn't thinking about irony—he just really likes Bon Jovi—but he is wanted. And, though the poster tacked up in every government office across the country doesn't specify, 'dead or alive' is implied.

Dean Winchester's FBI Most Wanted poster tells us that he is 42 years, 36 weeks, 3 days, and 124 minutes old. Additionally, it states that his eyes are hazel, and his hair is light brown. He's 6'1" and fit. He has a tattoo.

He's wanted for murder, robbery, grave desecration, and arson.

Here are a few notable facts that you won't find on any poster or in any government database: Dean's mother died when he was four years old. He fired a gun for the first time when he was six. When he was 29, he traded his eternal soul for his brother's life.

Four months later, an angel raised him from Hell.

If you were to ask Dean what he considers notable, he'd say that he's an Aquarius. He'd tell you he enjoys sunsets and long walks on the beach. He's a lover of both classic rock and classic cars. He's eaten pizza with Death. He defeated God. He killed Hitler.

The song ends and the farm report drones from the speakers—this is Kansas, after all. With his spoon free to be used for its intended purpose, Dean drops batter onto the griddle: three across, two deep; six perfectly round silver dollar pancakes in the making.

Without turning around, he asks his brother, "You want any pancakes?"

Dean's brother Sam is seated at the kitchen table, forking up the last of a spinach omelet with one hand and scrolling through his emails with the other. Distracted, Sam mutters, "Too many carbs."

Sam doesn't see the face Dean makes when he mouths, "Too many carbs."

Sam Winchester is 4 years, 33 weeks, and 5 days younger than Dean. His wanted poster, which usually hangs alongside Dean's, describes him as 6'4", green eyes, brown hair, 185 pounds. He, too, is wanted for murder, robbery, grave desecration, and arson, which isn't surprising since the brothers have rarely been apart.

Sam puts his fork down in order to apply both thumbs to his phone, and after double-checking a few relevant facts, he says, "Dean, you remember that taxidermy case Dad worked in 2001?"

Dean shudders. "The one where all the animals came back to life?"

"Yeah, that one," Sam grimaces. "I got an email from Randy Mann—"

"Randy Mann!" Dean snickers.

"—about another case. You think you and Cas can check it out?"

"I don't know, Sam. I still have nightmares about being chased by a jackalope."

"What's a jackalope?" Cas asks, shuffling into the kitchen.

Castiel, Cas, Angel of Thursday, is one million two thousand and four years, 41 weeks, 6 days, and 342 minutes older than Dean. He's the angel that gripped Dean tight and raised him from Perdition.

Castiel once described himself as the size of the Chrysler Building. God Himself said he had a crack in his chassis. While both of these descriptions are correct, Dean once called him a weird, dorky little guy, and today that description seems most fitting.

Cas is squinting at the bright light in the kitchen. His cheek is still creased from his pillowcase, and he's in Dean's hot dog pajama pants and a faded Black Sabbath tee shirt. Dean ushers him to a seat at the table, sets a cup of coffee in front of him, and presses a kiss to the top of his head.

"Jackalope. Jack rabbit. Ante-lope antlers. Jack. Uh. Lope. It's either a mythical creature or a joke. Depends on who you ask."

"Jackalope," Cas repeats thoughtfully.

"As I was saying," Sam continues, "I got an email from Randy Mann"—Dean snorts—"and he says a farrier named Lucas Shoemaker was found dead last night. He was trampled."

"Why should we care about a dude who sells fur?"

"Farrier. Air." Sam rolls his eyes. "It's a blacksmith, Dean. Puts shoes on horses."

"Don't try to act like that's a word everybody knows," he says as he tips up the edge of one pancake with his spatula and peers at the underside. With a satisfied nod, Dean flips all six, one after the other, to brown the other side.

"Are you going to let me finish?"

"Yeah, sure, whatever. Farrier. Trampled. What else you got?"

"Police are saying it's an accident, but Randy thinks it's a ghost."

"What, like a horse ghost?"

Sam shrugs. "He didn't say."

"I don't know, Sam. It's almost Halloween, and me and Cas have plans—"

"Dean, I told you I'm not going to wear the Hatchet Man costume in—"

Dean scowls at Cas and talks over him, finishing his sentence with, "—to watch the new Hatchet Man movie."

"Oh, okay, I guess I'll just call Garth then."

"Yeah, I'm sure he'll—"

"Garth likes pie, right?"

"Sam, everyone likes pie."

"Oh, yeah, good. That's good." Sam looks down at his phone and taps busily.

Dean watches his brother with narrowed eyes until finally—reluctantly—he says, "Why?"

Sam looks up at Dean, a theatrical look of surprise on his face. "Did you say something, Dean?"

Dean sighs. "Why do you want to know if Garth likes pie?"

"Oh! The pie! It's just that The Pie Hole is there, and I thought—but never mind. You said you're busy. Like I said, I'll ask Garth."

Dean's hand freezes in midair, batter dripping from the ladle onto the floor. "The Pie Hole? Are you kidding me?"

"What's The Pie Hole?" Cas asks.

"What's The Pie Hole? What's—It's The Pie Hole, Cas! It has a perfect five stars on Yelp! They say the apple pie is so good the apples must've come straight from the Garden of Eden!"

"You know, Dean, those weren't actually—"

"So what I'm hearing is that you don't want me to send Garth," Sam interrupts, looking smug.

"Pssh! No way! C'mon Cas, finish your coffee. I wanna get there before The Pie Hole closes!"

Apples may not have been the original forbidden fruit, but if you want Heaven on Earth, I recommend where the Pie Maker makes his pies.

At The Pie Hole, the peaches never brown. Berries are as ripe as the instant they were plucked. If they weren't so delicious and eaten so quickly, folks might notice the pies stayed fresh for an unusually long time.

That's because Ned, the Pie Maker, has a gift: his touch brings dead things back to life.

One touch sparks life—dead fruits ripen, sweet and golden.

A second brings death—rot, wilt, and decay.

It's a gift best kept to plants. That’s why the Pie Maker is a vegetarian.

It's a perfect fall day at The Pie Hole, and Ned the Pie Maker hums along to the radio as he rolls out dough. The windows are open, letting in a breeze that cools the oven-warm kitchen, and caught up in his work, Ned's not really listening when the afternoon news begins.

—are on the lookout for the man they're calling the Twilight Killer as they work to identify two bodies found drained of blood in a—

"It's obviously vampires."

Ned looks up as the woman he loves comes in from the storeroom, a crate of overripe bananas in her arms.

The facts are these: Charlotte "Chuck" Charles, 30 years, 24 weeks, 3 days, 11 hours, and 51 minutes old, and Ned's childhood sweetheart, is officially dead. Four months ago, Ned touched her lifeless corpse, and now they can never touch again.

One touch gave her life—breath, heartbeat, the rosy glow of life.

A second would bring her death—stillness and decay.

It's a gift that can only be used once. That’s why the Pie Maker is careful to keep his distance.

"What do you mean?" Ned asks as Chuck steps carefully around him to put the bananas down.

"The murders. It's obviously vampires," she says, keeping the counter between them.

Unable to hide his reaction, Chuck catches Ned's skeptical look. "How do you not believe in vampires?" she asks, surprised.

"Vampires aren't real."

"How do you know there's not a vampire telling his vampire friend, 'You don't think a guy can touch dead people back to life?'"

"Just because there's one kind of magic," Ned says, "doesn't mean there's all kinds. I don't believe in ghosts, witches, haunted houses, or spirits."

At that moment, Olive Snook, waitress, 32 years, 3 weeks, 2 days, 4 hours, and 16 minutes old, strides into the kitchen. Unaware of the Pie Maker's gift, she offers her own opinion on the supernatural.

"Ghosts yes, haunted houses yes, spirits yes, witches no. Also, table three wants another slice of berry crumble."

"See," Chuck says. "Olive agrees with me—Wait! Why not witches?"

Olive elaborates on her worldview as she cuts a wedge of berry crumble pie. "Witches are magic, and there's no such thing as magic. Ghosts and spirits are just part of the natural world."

"Ghosts and spirits aren't real," Ned argues.

"And vampires? Magic, or natural world?" Chuck asks, curious to understand this previously unknown facet of Olive's personality.

"Natural world," Olive expounds with confidence. "A few years back, my cousin Kristen was almost turned by this creepy master vampire. She said he was building an army for an alpha—"

—in other news, police have been unable to locate the horse that trampled local blacksmith Lucas Shoemaker last night at—

All the color drains from Olive's face, and the pie plate in her hand wobbles. "Lucas was trampled? He's dead?"

Ned had tuned out as soon as Chuck said the wordvampire, but at Olive's tone, he looks up from his pies. "You knew him?"

"No. Yes. No! I mean—Forget it! Table three's waiting!" With that, she spins on her heel and pushes through the swinging doors to the dining room, leaving her opinions on vampirism unfinished.

Ned and Chuck make eye contact across the counter.

"That was weird," Chuck says. "You thought it was weird too, right?"

"It's Olive," Ned says with a shrug.

"She's not always weird."

Ned raises his eyebrows.

"She's not!" Chuck insists.

Ned just shakes his head and goes back to work.

The weather is ideal for a drive: pale blue autumn skies, crisp fresh air, leaves colored every shade of orange, crunching under the Baby's tires. Cas is in the passenger seat, his body angled to watch Dean drum his fingers on the steering wheel as he guides the Impala down the highway.

"How did you have time to make a tape about pie?" he asks as the first notes of Led Zeppelin's Custard Pie stream from the speakers.

Dean removes one hand from the wheel in order to scratch the back of his neck and mumbles a few syllables in response.

"What was that, Dean? I couldn't hear you?"

He could, in fact, hear Dean. Castiel is a celestial being and thus blessed with perfect hearing.

"I already had it," Dean repeats more clearly. "There's a lot of good songs about pie!" he adds, sounding a little defensive.

"Hmm," Cas agrees. "I do enjoy Apple Pie A La Mode."

"See! That's what I—"

Realizing that he has inadvertently reignited the whipped cream versus iced cream debate that consumed the bunker in the hours prior to their departure, Cas elaborates: "The song!"

"I knew that!" Dean says, and then, under his breath, "What kind of person chooses whip cream when you can have ice cream?"

Cas hides his smile, and by the time the next song begins, Dean seems to have forgotten all about cream—whipped or iced—bobbing his head to the opening notes of Motley Crue's Slice of Your Pie. When the chorus begins, he turns to look directly at Cas and sings along. "Hey, pretty pretty with the sweet sweet eyes. Order me up another slice of your pie!"

He waggles his eyebrows, and Cas rolls his eyes fondly. Encouraged, Dean keeps singing, his eyes more on Cas than the road.

When the final notes fade away and Dean is grinning at him, eyes sparkling, Cas says, "That was an unexpectedly romantic song."

"Mm-hmm, 'I could spend a million years in your eyes'," he quotes. Cas doesn't try to stop the blush that rises in his cheeks, and Dean reaches his hand across the seat to pat his knee. "Let's see what else they've got. See if you can find Shout at the Devil."

Cas locates the tape, and they pass a pleasant hour with Dean's singing punctuated by occasional enthusiastic air drum solos.

Much later, Dean says, "Cas?"

"Hmm?"

"You think you have the juice to make a time loop?"

Cas frowns at him.

"Just a little one! A few days at the most!"

"Why?" Cas knows why.

Dean smiles. He knows Cas knows why.

"Dean, I am not going to make a time loop just so you can gorge on pie!"

Dean grins, unrepentant. "Gabe was kind of a dick about it, but Sam did get endless Pig in a Poke. Might've been worth it."

"I say we ask Sam that."

Dean laughs. "I say we don't!"

Neither of them really expect Castiel to use his powers. They don't think this will be anything more than a milk run. An excuse to take a long-deserved vacation. So they pass the hours in the car, engaged in gentle bickering. Talking about their family. Making plans for the future.

It's also an opportunity for Dean to teach Castiel the games he passed the time with as a child on the road with Sam and their father.

They hardly discuss the case at all, and certainly not ghosts.

"Hawaii!" Dean crows, having spotted the most elusive of all license plates, assuring his win.

They're playing the license plate game. (Dean banned punch buggy immediately after the angel spotted his first Beetle.)

Cas looks up from his phone, a soft smile on his face.

"What are you smiling about?" Dean asks, smiling himself. (Cas loves how this has become Dean's default expression since Chuck's defeat.)

"Jack," Cas says, looking back at his screen, fingers tip-tapping over the glass.

"Oh yeah? What's the kid up to?"

"He sent a picture of his Halloween costume. He's going to a costume party with his friends Friday night."

"Sounds fun! What's he going to be?"

With a mock stern look, Cas says, "As if you don't know."

"Hey! Hatchet Man's a classic," Dean laughs. "If I could've gone trick-or-treating as a kid, that's what I would've been."

Dean Winchester doesn't remember, but he has been trick-or-treating four times in his life—all before his mother died. The last time was just three days before Mary Winchester's death. Dean wore a too-big cowboy hat, holding tightly to his father's hand as he toddled down the sidewalk. His mother followed close behind, carrying six-month-old Sam dressed in a hand-me-down pumpkin onesie, a cheerful applique of Casper the Friendly Ghost sewn to her sweater.

After Mary's death, John Winchester spent his Halloweens immersed in another kind of spirits, and trick-or-treating became something other children did.

"I'm just surprised you're willing to miss the opening of the new movie."

"Hatchet Man: Passing the Axe." Dean wrinkles his nose. "I don't know about the reboot anyway. Timmy Chalamet as David Yaeger? It's probably going to suck."

"I believe he's actually David Yaeger's nephew."

Dean waves the facts off as irrelevant. "Whatever! I'm just saying the first time I see a subtitle and I'm walking out!"

Other than the higher than usual volume of pumpkin pie sales, it's a typical day at The Pie Hole: a slow trickle of customers, the pleasant aroma of baking pie, and a hint of burnt coffee.

On any other day, Olive Snook would be moving through her shift with an efficiency designed to minimize effort while maximizing tips, but today is different. Today, she stumbles back and forth between tables, mixing up orders and splashing coffee, as she grapples with the certainty that whoever killed Lucas Shoemaker already has her in their sights.

For Olive, the news report brought up memories. Memories she has tried to bury. Memories of a time she valued winning over everything else. A time she now deeply regrets.

"—I said, I asked for apple!"

"What?" Olive shakes her head and looks at the plate the customer is holding up. Rhubarb! "Oh! Sorry! Let me get you a fresh slice. On the house."

She plucks the plate out of the customer's hand and marches back to the kitchen to drop it into the sink with a clatter. "This was supposed to be apple!"

"You said rhubarb!" Ned insists.

Olive glances at her order book where she sees the word rhubarb in her own clear handwriting; rather than admit the error—her third today—she doubles down: "Why would I say rhubarb when the customer wants apple? No one even likes rhubarb!"

And then, with Ned distracted, sputtering about rhubarb's ideal sweet-tart ratio, she cuts a wedge of apple, plops a scoop of ice cream next to it, and speed-walks out of the kitchen.

Twenty minutes later, Olive's busy bussing not-rhubarb's table when the bells on the door jingle and alert her to a new customer. A glance tells her it's Emerson Cod, and a lightbulb clicks on over her head. She abandons her sponge on the sticky table and pokes her head into the kitchen and yells, "Ned! I'm taking my break!"

"You just took your break!" Ned yells back.

Too late; Olive's already gone.

Her apartment is above The Pie Hole, and she hurries up the stairs to unlock the door. Inside, in the hall closet, behind the Christmas decorations she rarely bothers to take out, she finds what she's looking for: 1st Place, Jock-Off 2015, Olive Snook.

Once upon a time, Olive's walls were lined with trophy-packed shelves, but now she only has this one, buried at the back of her closet. It's the symbol of her shame. The only thing she has from her old life.

Five days after the Jock-Off 2015, her eyes red-rimmed from crying, she tore down every single trophy—every last ribbon and plaque—and carried them out by the armload to shovel into the dumpster behind her apartment building. Nothing was spared, not even her first (Miss Junior Horsewoman, Honorary Mention), earned when she was only five years old.

The prize money is still in the cup where she left it—every penny. She takes the money and stuffs it in her pocket, pushing the trophy all the way to the back, covering it up with an old tree skirt and a tangle of Christmas lights. Then she locks up and hurries back to The Pie Hole.

Olive is worried she'll miss her chance, but there he is: Emerson Cod, seated at his usual table, sipping at a cup of bottomless coffee he probably poured himself. Intending to leave a poor tip, if history is any indication.

Emerson Cod does, in fact, intend to leave a poor tip.

Olive marches up to the table and waves the prize money under his nose. "I want to hire you," she announces.

He looks up from his coffee cup in surprise. "You want to what now?"

Emerson Cod is a private investigator, sometime employer of the Pie Maker, and keeper of his secret.

One day, 2 years, 3 months, and 11 days ago, when Emerson stumbled across the Pie Maker using his gift, he saw an opportunity, and a business arrangement was formed. Murders are much easier to solve when you can ask the victim who killed them.

And since the bakery, even with its five-star Yelp rating, is always on the verge of financial ruin, the Pie Maker uses the extra cash to keep his Pie Hole open.

"I want to hire you," Olive repeats.

Emerson plucks the money out of her hand. "What's the case?"

She slides into the seat opposite him and, keeping her voice low, says, "Yesterday, a farrier named Lucas Shoemaker was found dead. Trampled."

"Why do you care about a dude who sells fur?"

"Farrier. Air. It's a blacksmith. Puts shoes on horses."

Emerson crosses his arms over his chest. "Don't try to act like that's a word everybody knows."

Olive rolls her eyes and continues. "The police say his death was an accident."

"You got reason to think otherwise?"

"I might," she says, drawing out the last word.

"He ever"—Emerson raises his eyebrows significantly—"put shoes on you?"

"If you mean did we have sex, then no," she says.

"What if I didn't mean sex?"

"Then still no. We were competitors."

"Competitors, huh? What did you compete about?"

"It isn't something I like to talk about."

Emerson doesn't say anything, waiting for her to talk about it anyway.

Olive glances around to make sure no one else is listening before she says, "I used to be a professional jockey."

Emerson seems to take that in for a moment, and then he says, "You ever ride Seabiscuit?"

The facts are these: Seabiscuit died 42 years, 6 months, and 12 days before Olive Snook was born, but for 8 years, 11 weeks, and 4 days, Olive Snook had been a jockey. At the peak of her career, she was among the best and brightest of her sport.

Lucas Shoemaker had also been a frequent visitor to the winner's circle. Then, upon reaching the age of 45 years, 3 weeks, 4 days, and 4 hours, he retired. Permanently.

As Olive and Emerson negotiate the terms of their arrangement, the door to The Pie Hole swings open, bringing in a rush of street noise and the smell of autumn. Two men enter. The first seems to float, looking around the restaurant in evident pleasure. The second follows, an air of bemused interest on his handsome face.

"Got to go. Customers," Olive says. "You just figure out how Shoemaker really died."

Olive is unaware that she is about to serve coffee to a seraph (three sugars, cream) and a monster hunter (one sugar, black), who together have saved the world more times than anyone remembers.

She doesn't remember being erased from existence—no one does—but Dean Winchester, along with his brother and their adopted son, Jack, are the ones that brought her—and the whole world—back to life.

It was a gift, like the Pie Maker's, but on a much larger scale and without any strings attached.

Dean thought he was prepared for The Pie Hole. He'd seen photos—who hasn't? The Instagrammable round storefront with its kitschy pie crust roof is well-known. But as it turns out, photos don't do the place justice. If Cas hadn't been there to grab his elbow, Dean would have walked right into the door as he tried to take in everything at once.

And the inside! Dean has spent a lot of time in diners, but there's something special about this one—and it's not just the nearly overwhelming aroma of pie. It's the kind of place that makes Dean wish that he was the kind of guy who takes selfies.

Fortunately for Dean, Castiel is the kind of guy—or guy-shaped wavelength of celestial intent—who does take selfies. And Dean is secretly pleased when the angel throws an arm around him and commands him to 'say cheese'.

Now that they're crowded into the booth closest to the kitchen (ideal for both minimizing pie delivery time and maximizing delicious pie smells), Dean examines the menu like it's the map to El Dorado.

"What's our plan?" Cas asks.

"This is our plan," Dean says absently.

Cas directs a gentle eye roll in Dean's direction. "The case, Dean."

"The case. Sure." Reluctantly, Dean puts the menu down. "I was thinking first we'd—"

"Welcome to The Pie Hole. What can I get you boys?" A tiny blonde in a classic waitress uniform pops up and flips their coffee cups over.

Dean snatches up his menu again. He's been rehearsing for this moment almost since Sam gave him the case.

"What do you recommend?" Cas asks before Dean has the chance to speak.

The waitress—the badge pinned to her uniform says her name is Olive—gives Cas a slow up-down look. "Like the song says, handsome, you can't go wrong with sweet cherry pie. Tastes so good, makes a grown man cry."

And then she winks at Cas.

Cas, as usual, is clueless.

"The song Cherry Pie by Warrant was released in the summer of 1990. I understood that reference," Cas announces, looking pleased.

"You sure did, buddy," Dean says fondly, patting his leg under the table.

"I'll have a slice of cherry pie," Cas says decisively.

"Ice cream, or whipped cream?" she asks, and Dean can't help but admire her game; she's still trying to shoot her shot.

"Ice cream," Cas says with a quick glance Dean's way. "Definitely ice cream."

Olive sighs, defeated, and Dean stifles a laugh. "Cherry pie. Side of ice cream," she repeats. "Sure thing." She turns her attention to Dean next. "What about you, hon?"

"Classic apple, ice cream."

"You got it," she says, in a professional tone.

Dean watches her retreating back, and when he's sure she's out of earshot, he says to Cas, "She was flirting with you, buddy."

Cas's forehead creases as he replays their conversation. After a moment, he says, "No. I don't think so."

Dean snorts.

"She wasn't!" Cas insists.

"Cherry pie? Whipped cream?"

Cas gives him a blank look, and Dean examines his face carefully. "Sometimes I can't tell when you're screwing with me," he says.

"The case, Dean," Cas prompts.

"Sure, the case. This is what we're going to do: first we enjoy some delicious pie, then agents Perry and Swift will pay a visit to the morgue. We get a look at the body, prove to Sam it's a completely ordinary death, and then we come back for seconds. I'm thinking pumpkin in celebration of the season."

"I assume it will actually be thirds," Cas says, the corner of his mouth turning up in a smile.

"You know me so well, sweetheart!" Dean says, grinning.

"I do," Cas says, looking smug.

They smile at each other over their coffees for a few moments, until Dean gets a thoughtful look on his face. "Cas?"

"Hmm?"

"You remember that room Zachariah locked me in?"

"How could I forget?" Cas says dryly.

"If he'd put me some place like this… Might've just worked."

"I doubt that even endless pie could have overcome your essential contrariness."

Dean pats Cas's leg again. "Heh. You're probably right."

After taking the case, the first thing Emerson Cod does is track down Shoemaker's body.

The facts are these: after taking the case, the first thing Emerson Cod does is count Olive's money.

Shoemaker's body is cooling at the morgue, and, fortunately, Emerson has a contact there who'll let him in. No questions asked.

Getting Ned on board proves to be more difficult. He was all for it until he found out that Olive was the client, then it was all yada yada risky this, something something secret that. Whatever. Emerson stopped listening as soon as Ned said they should return the money.

They're at an impasse until Chuck joins the conversation, saying, "Ned, Olive needs our help."

Now that's something Emerson just doesn't get: if some guy had brought him back to life—if a second touch would kill him dead all over again—Emerson would hightail it to the other side of the country. At a minimum, he'd move to the next town over. He definitely wouldn't move in with the guy!

Emerson doesn't understand it, but he's willing to use Ned and Chuck's star-crossed love to his advantage. When Chuck turns her doe-eyes on Ned, he crumbles just like the graham crackers he's currently crushing around the edges of a pie tin. Emerson can almost see the little bluebirds twittering around his head.

An hour later, all three of them are standing in front of a set of elevator doors waiting for their ride down to the basement that houses the city morgue. As it turns out, Chuck's participation in Shoemaker's interview is another thing Ned is unable to refuse.

"For the record, I want it noted that I didn't want to take this case," Ned says. For at least the third time.

"For the record, I want it noted that I didn't want Chuck to come along," Emerson counters.

Chuck simply smiles at Ned and bounces on her toes, surprisingly enthusiastic about a visit to the morgue for a dead girl.

The elevator doors open, and Chuck steps inside. Emerson follows, and Ned brings up the rear, careful to keep his distance from Chuck in the tiny space. The doors slowly slide closed, and the ancient freight elevator starts moving again with a gentle jolt. Emerson, Ned, and Chuck ride down the three floors to the morgue in silence as an instrumental version of Another One Bites the Dust plays softly from the speakers.

They make their way through a maze of corridors to meet Emerson's contact. He doesn't know much about the guy—just that he works at a desk outside the double doors to the cold room. And that he only takes cash.

The facts are these: Emerson's contact, Bob Walton, is the junior assistant coroner. Emerson is unaware of this, but Bob believes that Emerson is a ghoul, using his access to steal organs from the recently deceased.

Without looking up from his phone, the man holds out a hand, and Emerson places a crisp fifty dollar bill on his palm. "Drawer three," Bob says in a bored tone.

With the toll paid, Emerson pushes through the double doors. He opens the third drawer and pulls out a gurney topped with a sheet-covered body. With Ned and Chuck positioned on opposite sides of the body, Emerson lifts the sheet back to reveal Lucas Shoemaker, the perfect U of a horseshoe imprinted into his face.

Chuck lets out a low whistle. "That's not the kind of thing you see every day."

Neither Emerson nor Ned comment.

This is, in fact, the kind of thing they see every day.

Emerson wasn't present for Chuck's revival, but even he—a man with only a casual relationship with morality—recognizes that he bears some of the responsibility for her second life. Unaware of the strength of Ned's feelings for this particular corpse, Emerson left him alone to perform the interview that was meant to find her killer, trusting that he would close the loop.

The direct result of Ned's inability to (metaphorically) let Chuck go was the death of another to balance the scales. In this case, an unscrupulous funeral home director took the fall.

In an effort to ensure that he never finds himself balanced on the other side of death's scales, Emerson no longer lets Ned question the dead alone, and he always sticks around to make sure he finishes the job.

After they've had a moment to take in the condition of Lucas Shoemaker's body, Emerson eyes his wristwatch and says, "Ready?"

"Ready," Ned replies. There's a distinct crackle as blue sparks jump from the tip of Ned's finger to Shoemaker's corpse, and then Shoemaker opens his eyes.

Emerson isn't the kind of man who indulges in deep thoughts, but even the most pragmatic observer would wonder about the nature of their existence when they see Ned at work. Where does Ned bring them back from, and where do they go again when he is done?

After too many sleepless nights, Emerson has stopped asking questions. Now he sticks to the facts.

"This may seem like asking the obvious," Emerson says, "but were you trampled by a horse?"

"John Joseph Jacobs killed me," Shoemaker mumbles, his words distorted by the horseshoe imprint across his face.

"You're sure?" Emerson prods.

Shoemaker makes a sound that Emerson takes for agreement, so he feels comfortable ending the interview. "I assure you, justice will be served." He waves a hand, indicating the talking corpse. "Ned, do your thing."

"Except…" Shoemaker says.

Ned freezes, his hand hovering just over Shoemaker's forehead.

"Except what?" Emerson asks warily, one eye on his watch.

"He's dead," Shoemaker pronounces mushily.

"Who's dead?" Chuck asks.

Emerson glares at her; she's supposed to keep her mouth shut. "Who's dead?" he repeats.

"John Joseph Jacobs. He died six years ago. His ghost killed me."

"His ghost," Emerson says, eyebrows raised.

"And he's going to kill ag—" But it's 59 seconds, and Emerson has no choice but to grab Ned's wrist and slap his hand down on Shoemaker's forehead, cutting the corpse off mid-word.

"See? Ghosts," Chuck says.

"There's no such thing as ghosts," Ned says.

"Are you serious, Mr. I-See-Dead-People?" Emerson scoffs.

"See!" Chuck exclaims, like she's proven a point. "Emerson, what's your stance on vampires?"

"Only a fool doesn't believe in vampires."

"Agree to disagree," Ned says, with the air of someone who knows he's already lost the argument.

After a brief stop at their motel to change into Fed suits, Dean and Cas drive across town to the city morgue. There, an ancient freight elevator carries them three levels below ground, moving ponderously, giving Dean time to realize he's listening to a muzak version of Don't Fear the Reaper.

Dean wrinkles his nose in disgust, and Cas says, "Is there something wrong?"

"No," Dean sighs and waves him off. "Just… You ever feel really old?"

"No," Cas says, deadpan.

"Shut up," Dean says, laughing, and he's still wearing a slight smile by the time they get to the attendant's desk.

Walton is completely engrossed in his phone and barely glances at their badges before he waves them through the door. "Drawer three," he says, followed by something under his breath that sounds like Grand Central Station.

"Huh?" Dean says. "Did you say something?"

The guy gives Dean a nervous look and says, "Nothing! I didn't say anything! No one else was here!"

"Dean!" Cas calls from inside.

Making a mental note to check Walton out, Dean goes in. The walls are lined with drawers, and Dean's attention is immediately drawn to what must be drawer three; it's hanging open, and the gurney is out, sheet pulled back carelessly.

With a low whistle, Dean says, "That's not the kind of thing you see every day. It's like his head's made of silly putty."

"'Silly putty'?" Cas asks.

Dean grins. "Yeah, Cas, silly putty! it's—Never mind. I'll show you later. We'll pick some up for Jack."

At Jack's name, Cas smiles, but then it slides off his face as he goes rigid, his eyes fixed on a point just over Dean's right shoulder. Dean wheels around to see a spirit—Shoemaker, he thinks—flickering in the corner, his face smooth and whole.

Dean sighs; he should've brought salt.

"Hey, uh, Lucas, right?" Dean says carefully. In their confusion, sometimes fresh ghosts are almost as dangerous as old ones. "We're not here to hurt you, buddy. We just wanna figure out who did this so we can stop them from hurting anyone else."

"It was a ghost," the ghost says.

"Uh, you know you're a ghost, right?"

The ghost rolls his eyes. "Duh."

Great. A sassy ghost.

"Yeah, okay," Dean says, "you got me there, pal. Just call me Captain Obvious—"

"His name is actually Dean, and I am Castiel," Cas interrupts. "What can you tell us about the spirit that did this to you?"

"I already told the other guys," Shoemaker says. "The ghost of John Joseph Jacobs killed me, and he's going to kill again."

"Other guys?" Dean asks.

"Two guys and a pretty girl. They just left."

Must have been the cops, Dean thinks. He imagines Shoemaker's ghost trying in vain to tell the investigators his story. "Tell me about John Joseph Jacobs. What's his beef with you?"

"I knew about the snip," Shoemaker says.

"The snip?" Dean repeats.

"Someone fixed that race. Snipped Johnny's girth—"

Dean can't help himself. "Girth!" he snorts.

"Dean," Cas admonishes.

"—snipped Johnny's girth and after, we all took an oath to keep it secret."

"Who's all?" Dean asks.

"Me, Gordon, Pinky, and Olive. I always thought it was Pinky, but he wouldn't admit it. There wasn't any proof either way, so we all said it was an accident. Never sat right with me, but I was too scared to say anything."

"And then what? How'd you die?"

"It was Johnny, and he was on his horse, Goldie."

"Is this a headless horseman thing? Did Jacobs have a head?"

Shoemaker rolls his eyes. Again. "They both had heads."

Dean thinks about salt and how a shotgun blast full of the stuff might tone the snark down a little, but he supposes even Gomez out there in the hall might look up from his phone when he hears the blast.

"Do you have any more questions?" Cas says to Dean.

"Nah," Dean says. "Can you do something about his, uh, condition?"

Cas nods, and his eyes flicker with grace.

"Hey! What are you—"

"Guy was kind of a smart ass," Dean mutters as they head out to the parking lot.

Ned is unsurprised that Olive is waiting when they get back to The Pie Hole. The sign is off, and the tables have been wiped down, and Olive is sitting by the window, picking at a slice of banana cream pie.

"Why'd she get to go along?" Olive complains when Chuck follows them in.

"Someone had to watch Digby?" Ned offers weakly.

At Olive's feet, Digby wags his tail.

Unaware of Ned's gift of life, Olive believes that Ned is allergic to his own dog, Digby.

The facts are these: Ned's golden retriever, 25 years, 10 weeks, 14 days, and 10 minutes old, is the first creature that Ned brought back to life, and, as with Chuck, any physical contact between them will have deadly consequences.

Ned has long practice keeping his distance from those he loves.

"Chuck could have watched Digby," Olive pouts as she reaches down to ruffle Digby's fur.

Ned tries another tactic. "The victim was your friend. I didn't think you'd want to see him like that."

"Was it very gruesome?" Olive asks, sounding like someone who hopes the answer is yes.

"So gruesome!" Chuck enthuses. "His head was—"

"Chuck," Ned says, cutting her off.

Chuck looks chastened, but not for long. "It was a ghost!" she announces excitedly.

"Chuck," Ned repeats. She's skirting a little too close for Ned's comfort to giving away his secrets.

But Olive doesn't ask where Chuck's information comes from. Instead, she says, "It's John Joseph Jacobs, isn't it?"

"His ghost!" Chuck says with relish. "How'd you know?"

Olive sighs. "It's a long story."

The story is, in fact, not that long. For 3 years, 4 months, and 26 days, John Joseph Jacobs had been the star of the horse racing circle. Win after win on the lined his shelves with trophies and his pockets with prize money until he was a sure bet to become the greatest jockey of all time.

His chance to prove himself came in the race of the century, pitting the top jockeys of the day against each other. But just as he was about to win the Jock-Off 2015, John Joseph Jacobs suddenly found himself unseated. His early lead—ideal for winning but not for falling—led to his being trampled by the four other riders in the race, including the Jock-Off 2015's eventual winner, Olive Snook.

"I quit racing the next day," Olive says, finishing the tale as they sit around a booth, polishing off the rest of the banana cream pie. "I put the trophy and my winnings in the closet and tried to forget."

Emerson sums it up, "So you're saying a ghost killed Shoemaker, looking to get revenge for John Joseph Jacobs' death?"

"I know it sounds crazy."

"Well…" Ned agrees.

"It's not crazy," Chuck insists.

"It's not a ghost," Ned says. Again.

"I agree with Ned," Emerson says. "Guy's supposed to win a race. He doesn't. There's got to be a lot of angry gamblers looking for someone to blame."

"Gamblers wouldn't have waited years to get their revenge," Chuck counters.

Olive says, "Maybe the ghost is going after everyone who finished the race? Gordon was fourth, Shoe showed third, Pinky placed second. I took first, but I never should have won."

Chuck pats Olive's hand sympathetically and says, "We'll figure this out. Emerson, what's our next step?"

"Our next step"—Emerson moves his finger back and forth between Ned and himself—"is to investigate John Joseph Jacobs."

In the car, they put the call to Sam on speaker and fill him in. After a moment's consideration, he says, "So you're saying your ghost said he was killed by a different ghost?"

"He wasn't a ghost at the time he was killed," Cas says helpfully. The slight smile on Cas's face tells Dean that he is aware that he is not being helpful.

"Yeah, Cas, I know," Sam says patiently.

"According to our ghost, the killer ghost is John Joseph Jacobs, a jockey who died six years ago. Can you see what you can find out about him?" Dean asks.

"Yeah, hold on," Sam says.

For the next three minutes, all Dean and Cas hear is the click clack of Sam's fingers moving over the keyboard. At last, he says, "Get this, John Joseph Jacobs was on his horse, Goldie, and a loose girth—"

"Girth!" Dean snorts.

"You're acting like a child, Dean!" Sam huffs.

"You're a child!"

"Please continue, Sam," Cas says firmly.

"A loose girth caused him to lose his seat, and then he got trampled by the other riders."

"That's what the ghost said. Did anyone suspect foul play?" Dean asks

"The police said it was an accident, but Jacobs' mother called it sabotage."

"How'd Mama Jacobs know?"

"I don't know. The paper just quotes her as saying, 'a mother knows'."

In this case, a mother did not, in fact, 'know'. Not for sure. At least not then. But saying 'a mother is suspicious' doesn't make a good sound bite.

"A mother knows," Dean repeats. "Well, that's super helpful."

"You want me to find out where Jacobs is buried?" Sam asks.

"Yeah, we're going to have to salt and burn the headless horseman tomorrow. I'm beat."

"We already know the horseman has a head," Cas says.

"Good night, Sam," Dean says and ends the call. To Cas he says, "You know that innocent angel act doesn't work on me."

"You think it's cute."

"I think it's cute when you do it to Sam."

Obviously it was an oversight that Ned left without her, Chuck thinks.

It was not, in fact, an oversight.

She gets why they would want to keep Olive out of this. Olive doesn't know about Ned's super secret superpower, but obviously, that's not something they need to worry about with Chuck. Besides, if Ned continues to close his eyes to the reality of the supernatural, he's going to need her help. That's what Chuck tells herself as she makes her way to Mrs. Jacobs' house the morning after the interview of Lucas Shoemaker.

Finding Olive already there is a surprise.

"What are you doing here?" Chuck asks.

"What are you doing here?" Olive replies.

That's when Emerson pulls up to the curb in his sporty red convertible. The top is down, and Ned is in the passenget seat. Chuck lifts her hand to wave, but at Emerson's annoyed glare, she lowers it again.

"Why am I not surprised?" Ned says as he climbs out of the car.

He was expecting her! Chuck smiles at Ned, glad they're on the same page.

They are not, in fact, on the same page.

Still behind the wheel, engine idling, Emerson says, "I'm outta here! Ned, I assume you can get your own ride home. Let me know what you find out."

"Wait—" Ned starts, but with a cheerful toot toot of his horn, Emerson motors away.

Ned stares after the car with a wistful expression, but then he squares his shoulders and turns around. He looks like he's working up to a lecture, but then his eyes go round with surprise.

Chuck follows his gaze. "I know, right?" She's already noticed the horse; who could miss it?

All around them, everything is uniform. Every lawn is as manicured as a golf course. Every garbage can is tucked behind neatly painted picket fences. Each house is of a similar floor plan, painted in one of four approved color combinations.

There are no whimsical wind chimes. No bird houses. Certainly no cheerful garden gnomes.

But despite the bland sameness all around them, there is no question which house is the former home of John Joseph Jacobs.

"That wasn't here before," Olive notes.

"It's a horse," Ned says, stating the obvious.

It is, in fact, a horse.

The bronze statue is a single note of disharmony within the aggressive conformity of the neighborhood. It rises from the ground mid-stride, long legs stretching over an invisible finish line, a jockey leaning over its neck. The statue is big as life—bigger, even—and so detailed, Chuck can almost feel the thunder of hoofbeats rattling her bones.

Olive picks her way across the lawn and bends down to examine the statue's base; the horse looms over her. It's impossible to make out the rider's expression from where Chuck stands, but the horse's lips are pulled back in a snarl.

"Maybe you shouldn't get so close!" Ned calls out nervously.

Suddenly, Olive jerks upright and backs across the lawn, never taking her eyes off the horse and rider. "It's Johnny," she says, sounding spooked. "He's crossing the finish line at the Jock-Off 2015."

"He never finished the race. That's weird, right?" Chuck says.

"It's weird," Olive agrees.

Ned says, "Does anyone else feel like it's watching us?"

Chuck feels it too, like a tickle on the back of her neck. "We should get this over with," she says, hugging her arms around her chest. Her nerves make her feel a little foolish. After all, what's the worst thing that could happen? She's already dead.

Not that she feels dead—in fact, the opposite; she feels more alive than ever—not in a physical way but mentally. Or maybe it's spiritual. Not that Chuck has seen God. Not even a white light. In fact, she doesn't remember a single thing about being dead. All she knows is that she blinked her eyes open in a funeral home, and when Ned blinked back at her, the whole world was in Technicolor.

"Right! Let's get this over with," Ned says. "Whoever killed Shoemaker wants to give the impression he's Jacobs' ghost—"

"Or is his ghost," Chuck says.

Sighing with his whole body, Ned says. "Whoever killed Shoemaker wants to make us believe he's John Joseph Jacobs' ghost. Maybe his mother can tell us something."

Olive says, "I'll talk to her; she knows me." And then she squares her shoulders and marches up to the front door. She presses the doorbell, and instead of the expected ding-dong, the faint whinny of a horse sounds from inside. Olive seems to take it in stride, but Chuck and Ned look at each other with raised eyebrows.

"Weird," Chuck mouths. Ned nods back.

It's a long time before footsteps approach the door—so long that Chuck begins to think no one is home—but then the door swings open and an old woman peers up at them through thick glasses.

Olive's confidence seems to drain away under the old lady's stare. "Hello, Mrs. Jacobs," she croaks.

"Oh, hello… Olive," the woman says. Her mouth is twisted into an approximation of a smile, but her eyes are like chips of ice.

Olive says, "Um…"

Chuck waits for more, but nothing else is said. She looks at Ned, and he shrugs helplessly. That's when she realizes that interviews must be Emerson's job. She nudges Olive out of the way and says, "Hello, Mrs. Jacobs. I'm Chuck, and this is Ned, and we're here supporting our friend in the matter of Lucas Shoemaker's death."

Mrs. Jacobs bobs her head in a curt nod.

"As you can see, Olive is overcome with grief, and"—Chuck tries to think of an excuse for being there—"and, it's, uh, it's brought other things to the surface." She turns her eyes to the statue on the lawn—the physical manifestation of those 'other things'.

"I heard about Lucas. Tragic," Mrs. Jacobs says flatly. After a pause, she adds, "I suppose you want to come in?"

"Thank you, Mrs. Jacobs. That's very kind of you."

Without another word, Mrs. Jacobs turns her back to them and shuffles into the house, expecting them to follow. Chuck gives Olive a little push to get her moving, and Ned brings up the rear, closing the door behind them.

Inside, the house is dim and overwarm, smelling unpleasantly of old roses and horse. The surprisingly long hall is lined with photos. Nearest the door, the pictures feature a grinning, gap-toothed boy sitting on a pony's back, and as they make their way forward, the pony is replaced by a horse, and the boy grows into a man.

The last photo, just before the hallway ends, shows what must be Jacobs' final day. Chuck recognizes a younger Olive, along with Jacobs, Shoemaker, and two other jockeys, posing around a banner announcing the Jock-Off 2015.

Chuck leans in, looking closer. She rubs at the glass, trying to remove a smudge over Shoemaker's face—

"Did you get lost?" Mrs Jacobs calls from around the corner.

"Sorry!" Chuck says and rounds the corner into a sitting room, crowded with racing memorabilia, where Mrs. Jacobs and Olive are already waiting. She hurries to take a seat on the sofa to Olive's right, and Ned perches on her other side.

No one says anything, and the silence is uncomfortable. Well, Chuck is uncomfortable. Olive, too, if the tension radiating off her body is any indication. And Ned is so often uncomfortable that Chuck feels she can take his state as given.

Mrs. Jacobs, on the other hand, seems content to let the silence stretch. She is seated on the other side of the coffee table, on a large wing chair, watching them with avid interest.

When the tension has stretched almost to the breaking point, and Olive still hasn't found her voice, Chuck says, "You have a lovely home, Mrs. Jacobs."

Mrs. Jacobs preens. "I do hope you'll forgive all the mess. The Hall of Fame is remodeling their exhibit on Johnny, and they asked me to organize all his trophies."

Chuck looks at Olive, expecting a reaction, but her eyes are wide and staring. Chuck follows her gaze to a single large trophy, surrounded by a mishmash of clutter: a purple candle, dusty potpourri, half-burnt incense, a horseshoe, a riding crop.

It looks like it's going to be up to her to get this interview moving. "The Hall of Fame. How wonderful!" she says brightly.

"Thank you, dear," Mrs. Jacobs says, without taking her small, cold eyes off of Olive. "It's probably just as well that Olive trampled Johnny when she did, otherwise, I would have had to buy another house just so I would have room for all his trophies."

A sound leaks out of Olive like a balloon deflating, and Chuck laughs nervously.

At Chuck's laugh, Mrs. Jacobs' attention turns to her. "Oh, I know that must sound a little… bitchy. What did you say your name was? Brandon? Butch?"

"Chuck," Chuck says.

"Chuck. Of course. I knew it was something unladylike. My point is that I have made peace with Johnny's death. It wasn't easy at first, but knowing it was an accident helps."

Mrs. Jacobs has not, in fact, made peace with her son's death.

Olive speaks for the first time since the old woman opened the door, and her words tumble over each other in a rush. "I want you to know, Mrs. Jacobs, I never spent the winnings from that race until now, and I'm using it to hire Ned and his partner to help solve this awful murder. It's what Johnny would want!"

"Oh, Olive, I don't blame you for trampling Johnny. He wouldn't have slowed down either. No matter what—or who—was in his way."

Mrs. Jacobs does, in fact, blame Olive.

With that, Ned seems to finally remember that he too has a voice. "Do you know who might have wanted to hurt Mr. Shoemaker?" he asks.

Focused entirely on Olive, Mrs. Jacobs says, "I don't know, but if I had to guess, I'd say he must have had a terrible secret."

Olive emits another squeak.

"Oh," Ned says unhelpfully.

"Any idea what that secret might be?" Chuck asks.

"None at all," Mrs. Jacobs says placidly. "Perhaps his friends would know."

With that, Olive shoots to her feet. "It was so good to see you again, Mrs. Jacobs, but we really need to go. We can show ourselves out. Bye!" she says rapidly, and then she speed-walks out of the room, and Chuck hears the front door slam a bare few seconds later.

Mrs. Jacobs doesn't seem bothered by Olive's sudden departure. In fact, if Chuck had to guess, she'd say Mrs. Jacobs looks satisfied. Ned and Chuck make their own hasty goodbyes and hurry outside after Olive, and they catch up to her down the street, leaning against her car.

"What was that all about?" Chuck asks.

Olive's eyes dart toward the house. "There was a trophy…" she says, her voice high and trembling.

"There were lots of trophies," Chuck says when Olive doesn't continue.

"There was a trophy," Olive repeats with more strength. "It was from the Jock-Off 2015, and it's my trophy! I just saw it yesterday. It was in my closet!"

On the second day of their ghost-hunt-slash-vacation, Dean and Cas spend a surprisingly pleasant afternoon at a corn maze. It's Cas's idea.

Dean argued against the trip; he doesn't have a lot of pleasant memories around scarecrows—

Dean Winchester does not, in fact, have any pleasant memories around scarecrows.

—but he's helpless in the face of Cas's solemn assurances of protection.

"Fine!" he says, "But I'm not letting you lead the way!"

As an angel, Cas has a perfect sense of direction, so a simple corn maze would be nothing for him to navigate. The twenty-dollar admission—each—would be wasted if it only takes ten minutes to walk from one end to the other.

Dean takes the lead, examining the signs, checking the position of the sun, and—just on principal—taking the opposite way, every time Cas offers a suggestion. It takes them hours to make it out, but it goes a long way toward erasing Dean's scarecrow-related trauma.

------

Back at the motel so they can pick the loose hay out of their clothes, Dean calls Sam. "You're in luck," he says. "Jacobs' coffin is in the family mausoleum, so you can leave the shovel in the car."

"Awesome," Dean says with feeling. "Salt, matches, lighter fluid—that ought to put a stop to our friend Flicka. We'll stick around a couple days, make sure the horse ghost is toast, eat pie, maybe even get home in time for Hatchet Man."

They swing by Friendly's Market on the way to the cemetery, where they pick up a bouquet of slightly wilted carnations. Then they stroll into the cemetery just before closing like a couple ordinary guys just visiting their departed loved ones.

After a lifetime of sneaking into cemeteries, Dean Winchester learned the camouflaging properties of a bouquet of flowers on a hunt with Donna Hanscum.

On that same hunt, he also learned the power a casserole gives one to enter the home of a grieving witness. Dean attributes this arcane knowledge to Donna's inherent Midwestern niceness.

John Joseph Jacobs' final resting place isn't one of those modern structures that's built like a Holiday Inn: five stories of concrete postmodernism with bodies packed inside like sardines in a can. Instead, Jacobs is interred in a proper mausoleum: creaky doors, loose dirt, cobwebs, and all. Dean looks around with approval as they secrete themselves inside to wait for full dark.

At go-time, Cas uses his angelic strength to pull the coffin out of its alcove. He rests it on the ground and pries off the lid, and then they both stare down at the contents of Jacobs' coffin in surprise.

Cas is the first to speak. "This is unexpected."

Inside the coffin, lays a desiccated horse's head.

"At least it's not in our bed," Dean says, eyeing it with distaste.

"The Godfather," Cas murmurs.

Dean nods with approval and pats Cas's arm. "We should call Sam," he says.

Sam picks up on the second ring. "We found a horse's head," Dean says without preamble.

"Hello to you too, Dean. What do you mean, you found a horse's head?"

"There's a horse head. In Jacobs' coffin."

"Where's Jacobs?"

"Good question. He's not there. Unless… Is horse shifter a thing?"

"Maybe?" Sam says doubtfully. "But then, why just the head?"

"And more importantly, where's the rest of—Cas! Are you sniffing it? Stop that!" Dean says, disgusted. "I've told you a million times not to sniff dead bodies!"

Ignoring Dean, Cas breathes in deeply through his nose. "The horse is not supernatural in origin," he says after a moment's consideration. "I think it's likely that this was Mr. Jacobs' horse, Goldie."

"So where do we think Jacobs' body is? Are we sure he's even dead?" Sam asks, mirroring Dean's own questions.

Dean heaves a sigh; this is really going to cut into his pie time. "I guess that's what we need to figure out," he says. "I suppose we should salt and burn the horse's head? To be on the safe side."

"Couldn't hurt," Sam agrees.

Probably-Goldie's head burns down to ash in a matter of minutes, and they scoop the remains back into the coffin and close the lid. Cas shoves the coffin back into its berth, and Dean dusts his hands on his jeans.

"C'mon, I need a shower," he says, and they creep out of the cemetery and back to the car.

—local news: Pinky McCoy, bar owner and former jockey, found dead in his own bar with the door locked from the inside. Police are investigating it as a homicide—

The peace of The Pie Hole's kitchen is shattered by a shriek and the clatter of half a dozen pie tins—thankfully, empty—crashing to the floor.

Ned rushes out of the kitchen and into the dining room, where Olive has been preparing to open the doors. "What happened?"

Chuck joins them and says, "What's wrong?"

"Pinky's dead!" Olive wails, standing inside a circle of fallen pie tins.

"I'm sure it's just a coincidence," Ned says without conviction.

"Or it's the ghost!" Chuck says, seeming to relish the idea.

"It could be Mrs. Jacobs," Ned points out reasonably.

"Or Mrs. Jacobs and a ghost," Chuck counters.

"It's not a ghost," Ned sighs. "Let's get this cleaned up, and then we'll call Emerson."

The tinny strains of My Heart Will Go On pull Dean out of a deep and restful sleep. He tries to roll over to get his phone off the nightstand, but a strong arm is pinning him in place.

"Mph," Cas mumbles into the back of his neck, tightening his arm around Dean's chest. This morning, Dean is the little spoon.

The ringtone starts up again, sounding somehow more urgent this time. "Cas, sweetheart, it's Sam. You got to let me get it."

"I can still smite people, you know," Cas mutters, but he loosens his hold just enough for Dean to reach his phone.

"Yeah?"

"There's been another death," Sam says. "I sent you a link." Sam ends the call without saying goodbye.

"The victim is already dead," Cas grumbles, "it doesn't help anyone to wake us this early."

Dean laughs. "Will it make you feel better if I let you have the first shower, Mr. Smitey?"

"No," Cas says sulkily, and pulls Dean back against his chest.

Dean relaxes into the solid wall of warmth against his back, scrolling the article Sam sent with one hand. "Says here the victim's name is Pinky," he says, wondering what kind of man willingly allows himself to be called 'Pinky'.

Cas grumbles something irritated-sounding into the back of Dean's neck, and the vibration makes him shiver.

Pinky McCoy, found dead—trampled—inside the bar he owns, doors locked from the inside.

"Same M.O. as Shoemaker, Cas—and the guy was a jockey! Sounds like someone a horse ghost would go after."

"Will getting out of bed before nine restore this man's life?" Cas grumps.

Dean snorts and reaches back to pat Cas's bare shoulder. As an angel, he doesn't need to sleep, but in the months since Cas returned from the Empty he's embraced hedonism in all its forms: sleep, soft clothing, good food, sex.

Dean continues scrolling. There was a witness of sorts this time: a late-night dog-walker saw purple light strobing through the bar's closed blinds—unusual, but not alarming—but when he heard the clomp of hooves and the scream of a horse coming from inside, he called the police. Twenty minutes later, they found Pinky dead—a horseshoe imprinted into his forehead.

"Says here the police suspect"—Cas nips the back of Dean's neck—"Ow!"—plucks the phone out of Dean's hand, and flings it over the side of the bed.

Laughing, Dean protests, "Hey, I was reading that!”

But Cas makes Dean forget all about Pinky McCoy.

As the elevator carries them down to the morgue for the second time in three days, Ned grapples with an overwhelming sense of deja vu. An acoustic guitar version of In My Time Of Dying is being piped through the elevator's speakers this time, but otherwise it feels like a rerun. The same man is at the desk, slumped over his phone again—maybe, still—and he holds his hand out for Emerson without looking up. The only change from last time, is that he says "Drawer two."

Ned spares a moment to wonder if Shoemaker is still cooling in drawer three, or if he's already at the funeral home, dressed in his best suit, waiting for his loved ones to say their final goodbyes.

Ned tries not to think about the dead he speaks to; he's found that it's best if he doesn't know them at all. He doesn't want to imagine their hopes and dreams. He doesn't want to think about the people who will miss them. What if he found out that Shoemaker, or McCoy, or any one of the dozens of people he's revived over the years, had someone who loved them every bit as much as he loves Chuck?

"How much do you pay that guy?" Chuck asks. Her voice is a refreshing breeze, dispelling Ned's melancholy thoughts.

"Enough that he drives a nicer car than I do," Emerson says. "Why? You thinking of getting a new career?"

"Maybe," Chuck says thoughtfully. "Looks pretty lucrative."

"And you're already dead, so you'd fit right in," Emerson adds helpfully.

Unoffended, Chuck hums agreement. Ned can't make himself regret bringing her back.

"You got that look on your face, Ned," Emerson growls. "We're not going to have a problem, are we?"

Ned realizes he has a dopey smile on his face, and he tries to wipe it off. "Nope! No problem," he says quickly.

Emerson gives Ned an I'm-watching-you look, and says, "Good. Let's get this over with."

Emerson goes to drawer two, rolls out the gurney, and pulls back the sheet. Just like Shoemaker, Pinky has a horseshoe-shaped dent in his face.

"Ready?" Emerson asks.

Ned nods. With a touch and a spark, Pinky jolts to life. The corpse looks around the room and says, "Oh, crap, I need a drink."

"Who did this to you?" Emerson says.

Chuck says, "Was it John Joseph Jacobs?"

Pinky points at her and nods. "Wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes. Johnny looked the same as the day he died. I always knew he'd get his revenge—not that I don't deserve it, since I'm the one who gave him the snip."

"What snip?"

"Let's just say I played the ponies better than I rode them."

Chuck raises her eyebrows. "You bet on your own races?"

"Only the ones I fixed," Pinky says blithely.

"Was that very many of them?"

Pinky shrugs, and Ned thinks that probably means yes.

"Tell Olive and Gordon to be careful," Pinky says. "Johnny's going after everyone who kept the secret."

"What secret?" Chuck asks.

"Make yourself comfortable; it's quite a story—" he starts.

"Time," Emerson calls, looking at his watch.

And, obediently, Ned cuts Pinky off.

Eventually Cas agrees to get out of bed, and good to his word, Dean lets him have the first shower. Dean also has the first shower, so as far as he's concerned, they're both winners.

The second death tells Dean that the horse's head wasn't the source of the ghost, but John Joseph Jacobs is still the best lead they have, so they need to figure out what happened to his body.

They enjoy a late breakfast while they plan their next steps. Dean finishes the last piece of bacon and says, "His mother still lives in town."

"Do you think she knows there's a horse's head in her son's coffin?" Cas asks, as he sips his oversweet coffee.

Dean shrugs. "It's not like we can ask her. Hello, Mrs. Jacobs, we desecrated your son's grave last night, and we were just wondering…"

"That would be problematic," Cas says mildly.

"That's one way to put it," Dean laughs. "Finish your cavity-juice and let's go see the guy's mom."

"Dean, I cannot get cavities."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, so you and Jack keep telling me." Dean stands. "Let's go."

Cas smiles at Dean, even white teeth on display, and takes another pointed sip of his sugary coffee sludge, before he stands too.

Back at The Pie Hole, Ned insists he needs to finish the batch of pumpkin pies that were interrupted by Olive's scream. Chuck and Emerson follow him back into the kitchen, and Ned gets the ingredients out of the walk-in and lines up a row of pie tins on the counter.

Olive joins them a few minutes later, having stuck a Post-it to the door that says Be Right Back.

"Olive, is there something you're not telling us?" Ned asks, giving her his best I-know-there's-something-you're-not-telling-us look, and Olive crumbles like three-day-old pie crust.

The facts are these: In the chaos that followed the Jock-Off 2015, the four surviving jockeys, Pinky, Lucas, Gordon, and Olive, gathered in secret.

One of them had deliberately cut the fallen jockey's girth. Accusations flew, but no one would admit to the heinous crime. To protect their own freedom, the four suspects agreed that the crime would never be revealed.

Olive tried to protest, but she was overwhelmed. Unwilling to risk prison, she took an oath to keep the terrible secret, and the evidence was destroyed.

"You're in danger," Ned says. "I'm not saying it's a ghost, but I am saying there's a pattern."

"It's Johnny's mother! She has to be behind it," Olive says.

"She's probably a witch," Chuck says sagely.

"She's not a witch."

"Oh, she's a witch, all right," Chuck says.

"She is," Olive says. "A witch, I mean. I called my cousin—since the vampire thing, she stays on top of all the supernatural stuff. She even has a podcast—"

"What's it called? Would I have heard of it?" Chuck asks, sounding excited.

"It's called Twi-Hard. It's mostly about protecting yourself from vampires, but—"

"Olive, focus!" Emerson says impatiently.

"Right! Kristen said we need to retrieve the 'focal point' of the spell—that's my trophy—and destroy it."

"Then that's what we'll do," Chuck says decisively.

Ned waits for Emerson to say the plan is ridiculous, but he is doomed to disappointment. "We're going to need a diversion. Someone's going to have to get the old bat out of the house."

With a sigh, Ned sets about packing up his unfinished pies, resigned to being an unwilling participant in the burglery of an old woman's house.

The roar of Baby's engine seems to echo in the empty streets as Dean winds through block after block of identical houses, looking for the horse ghost's former home.

"Horse ghost? Host?" Dean muses. "Cas, what do you think we should call it?"

When Cas doesn't say anything, Dean glances over to see him hunched over his phone screen, smiling softly.

"Cas," he says a little louder and when Cas looks up, Dean says, "What are you looking at?"

"Jack posted a picture of his costume in the group chat. He wants to know if there's enough blood."

"Tell him I said you can never have enough blood."

Eyes bright with mirth, Cas says, "That's exactly what Claire said!"

A warm feeling kindles in Dean's chest. "You always say she takes after me."

Cas squints back down at his screen, tapping out something that makes him chuckle to himself, and Dean watches him out of the corner of his eye. He has that soft look on his handsome face that's reserved for Jack and Claire, and Dean feels like his heart is going to swell right out of his chest.

It's been a long road to get to where they are today—together, happy. A lot of the detours and dead ends along the way were down to Chuck—

The facts are these: Charlotte "Chuck" Charles has not influenced Dean and Castiel's relationship in any way. Dean is actually referring to Chuck Shurley a.k.a. God. (That's God with a capital G—now deposed.)

—but not all of them. They've kept secrets from each other, made assumptions, lied—often with good intentions, but that doesn't change the fact that they've hurt each other. But now, when Dean looks at Cas—pale autumn sun haloing him as he smiles over the latest antics in their family chat—he wouldn't change a single thing.

------

Twenty minutes later, the swelling joy in Dean's chest has been replaced by sour irritation. "Man, I just don't get the suburbs," he grumbles as he's forced to reverse out of yet another cul-de-sac.

"I believe many humans are comforted by their predictability."

"Many humans like golf too; that doesn't make it any less boring."

It's hard to get his bearings when every street is named after another kind of tree. Dean thinks he may be driving in circles, but there's no way to tell when every house looks the same as every other. At last, he realizes that Willow Lane and Willow Place are actually two different streets, and, armed with that crucial fact, he finally locates the home of John Joseph Jacobs' mother.

They climb out of the car and stand side by side, studying the house.

"I'm surprised the HOA allows it," Dean says. In contrast to the bland sameness of the neighborhood, there's a monument rising out of the lawn that makes it impossible to mistake Mrs. Jacobs' house for any other.

Cas squints at the horse like he's trying to see all the way through it. "Does that horse look familiar to you?" he asks.

Dean shrugs. "It's a horse, Cas. They all look the same to me. It does look kind of angry though."

They study the statue for another minute, and then Dean claps Cas on the shoulder. "Let's get this show on the road before the neighborhood watch gets involved." That's another thing about the suburbs: neighbors are quick to call the cops on two men, loitering on their sidewalk. "Ready, Agent Swift?"

"Ready, Agent Perry," Cas replies.

Something about his tone puts Dean on alert. "Agent Steve Perry, right?" Dean says sternly. "Not like last time!"

"Of course, Dean," Cas says, a tiny smile lifting the corners of his mouth.

Dean is referring to the last time he inhabited the role of Agent Perry. On that memorable occasion, the angel Castiel, with the assistance of Sam Winchester and a pirated copy of Photoshop, replaced 'Steve' with 'Katy' on Dean's counterfeit badge.

Dean flips open his ID, checking it carefully. "It wasn't funny!"

It was, in fact, funny.

Cas makes a noise that Dean understands to mean agree to disagree. Dean knows when he's losing an argument, so he decides to take the high road, leading the way to Mrs. Jacobs' door. There, he straightens his shoulders and, throwing on his FBI persona, presses the doorbell. When he makes out a faint wheezing sound instead of the expected ding-dong, Dean says, "Sounds like the doorbell's broken," and stabs his finger at the button several times in a row—wheeze wheeze wheeze wheeze.

The door jerks open, and Dean's almost positive he hears the whinny of a horse from somewhere inside. Weird, he thinks as a sharp-eyed old woman glares up at them.

"No solicitors!" she says firmly, closing the door in their faces.

Dean sticks his foot out, flashing his badge and talking fast. "Mrs. Jacobs? Agents Perry and Swift, FBI. We're investigating Lucas Shoemaker's death, and I understand he was a friend of your late son."

The door pauses just before it can make contact with Dean's boot. "That was a long time ago," she says.

Taking advantage of his natural air of authority, Cas steps in. "This is a very serious case, ma'am. Anything you can tell us may help."

Mrs. Jacobs sighs. "I suppose you want to come in?"

"Yes, ma'am. Thank you."

She doesn't say another word, turning and shuffling into the house, expecting them to follow. Dean shrugs and steps inside, trusting Cas to keep up.

The hallway they walk through is lined with photos of John Joseph Jacobs. They're hung in chronological order, starting out with a toddler astride a pony and ending with the photo of a grown man standing with four other jockeys.

"Hey, Cas," Dean whispers, "isn't that 'Cherry Pie'?" At Cas's blank look, Dean clarifies, "Olive?Our waitress at The Pie Hole. I think that's her."

Dean's almost sure it is; she looks a little younger, but other than that, she's hardly changed. Aside from Olive and Jacobs, Dean doesn't recognize anyone else. Making it harder, two of the unknown faces are smudged, as if a greasy finger touched the glass.

"Did you boys get lost?" Mrs. Jacobs calls from within the nearby room.

"No, ma'am," Dean calls out and steps through the doorway, finding himself in a cluttered living room, where Mrs. Jacobs is perched on a throne-like wing chair. "We were just admiring the photos of your son," he says as they take seats on a small sofa opposite her.

"You must have been a very dedicated mother," Cas says.

"Dedicated," Mrs. Jacobs pronounces slowly. "Yes, that's exactly it: dedicated. I invested so much of myself in Johnny's success." Her sly smile makes it look like she's laughing at a private joke.

The old bat is ringing Dean's alarm bells; time to wrap this up and get out of here. Besides, the smell of old-lady perfume and horse is giving Dean a headache. "What can you tell us about your son's death?" he asks.

"Oh, that was such a long time ago," she says. "I hardly ever even think about it anymore."

This is untrue. Mrs. Jacobs thinks about almost nothing else.

"If you could just tell us what you remember," Cas prompts.

She blows air out her nose like a horse. "It was a Sunday and Johnny was competing in the Jock-Off 2015"—with a mighty struggle, Dean manages to suppress a laugh—"Johnny was out in front and then he fell. None of the other riders stopped—that's all there is to say. Oh, and Goldie snapped his foreleg in the commotion, and I had to shoot him."

"Goldie. That was your son's horse, right?" Dean clarifies.

"Of course, Agent Perry, who else would I shoot?"

She looks at Dean like she expects an answer, but Cas diverts her attention, saying, "Is that the trophy?" He's pointing at a large gold cup, centered on a low table, and surrounded by a scattering of dusty old junk. "Wasn't Olive Snook the winner?"

"Everyone knew that trophy belonged to Johnny," she says," and I've made it his final resting place."

Sensing an opportunity to find out more about the horse's head, Dean says, "What do you mean 'resting place'? I thought your son was buried in the family mausoleum."

The old lady waves her hand dismissively. "Oh no, that's where I put Goldie. It's what Johnny would have wanted."

"A horse of Goldie's size would not fit in a standard coffin," Cas says bluntly.

"Of course it wouldn't!" she laughs. "I could only fit Goldie's head in there."

"Uh… Then, what did you do with the rest of the horse?" Dean asks.

"Why, it's in the trophy with Johnny," she says. As if it should be obvious.

Ding ding ding, Dean thinks, we have a winner! That's the kind of messed up that turns a guy into a horse ghost. "I think we've got all we need, right, Agent Swift?" he says. "Thank you for your time, Mrs. Jacobs, we can see ourselves out."

Cas is frozen, his attention fixed on the trophy, so Dean nudges him. "C'mon, Agent Swift, time to go."

"Yes. Of course," Cas says, sounding distracted. "Thank you for your time, Mrs. Jacobs."

Something about the house—the whole neighborhood—makes Dean clam up, and Cas seems to feel it too because neither of them speak until they're safely inside Baby and pointed in the direction of their motel.

"That was not normal!" Dean exclaims. "She's probably got a creepy horse-themed torture dungeon in the basement! What do you think she's up to?"

"There was dark power in that trophy, and I believe the items positioned around it, along with the dried horse herb, tie that power to the victims."

"It just looked like a bunch of dusty old junk to me," Dean says.

"There was a horseshoe, which may represent the first victim—the farrier. The riding crop or betting tickets could represent Mr. McCoy, and the trophy itself ties it to our waitress."

"All right, let's call Sam and see if he can come up with a counterspell."

"Isn't this a felony?" Ned asks after he's heard Chuck's plan.

"Not as long as the value of the trophy is under a thousand dollars," she says confidently.

"I'm worried that you know that," he says.

"With what I'm paying, why do I have to risk jail time? How come Emerson gets to create the diversion?" Olive complains.

"You three chuckleheads just had to do the interview, so now I'm the only one she won't recognize," Emerson says.

"He's right," Chuck says. "We don't want to compromise the plan."

"The plan?" Ned says skeptically. "Emerson distracts Mrs. Jacobs, and then we steal the trophy. Shouldn't a plan have more than two steps?"

"We're leaving room for improvisation," Chuck says breezily. "Now let me show you your ski masks!"

------

Hours later, Ned and Olive are dressed in black from head to toe, crouched in the woodsy park at the end of Mrs. Jacobs' street. Chuck is the self-designated lookout. She's lurking nearby, half-hidden behind a narrow tree where she has an unobstructed view of the house.

"Stop fidgeting!" Olive hisses as Ned tugs at the black balaclava pulled down over his face.

"It itches!" Ned hisses back.

"Don't be such a baby!" Olive says, scratching under her own mask.

Chuck looks over her shoulder and exhales a disapproving "Shh!" and they whisper back, "Sorry."

They manage to maintain silence for almost twenty minutes, and then Mrs. Jacobs' station wagon pulls out of the garage and rolls past them.

"I'll make sure the coast is clear!" Chuck whispers loudly. The mouth of her stocking cap is stretched into a wide grin as she slinks out of her hiding spot. Ten seconds later she's back, beckoning them forward with a whisper-shouted "Keep to the shadows!"

With the night lit by a sliver of the moon and a few streetlights, there are plenty of shadows to keep to, and Ned follows in Chuck's footsteps as she creeps along the deserted street. They finish their journey in a crouching run across the old lady's lawn and press themselves into the shadows around the door.

"How are we getting in?" Ned asks, hoping he's not going to be called on to 'improvise'.

"I've got this," Olive says confidently, plucking a bobby pin from beneath her balaclava.

"You know how to pick locks?" Chuck asks, sounding impressed.

"Doesn't everyone?" Olive says around the tiny flashlight clenched between her teeth. The lock gives way with a little snick, and Olive stows the flashlight in her pocket. "Ready?"

"Ready!" Chuck says eagerly.

"Ready," Ned says, feeling distinctly not ready.

For all her confidence with the lock, now that the door is open, Olive hovers on the threshold. "Does it seem extra dark in there?" she asks, nervously.

"It'll be fine, you'll see!" Chuck says, giving Olive a bracing shoulder pat before she edges past her and into the house.

Olive looks at Ned, and he shrugs. "It just looks regular dark to me," he says, and steps inside. After a slight hesitation, he hears Olive's shuffling footsteps, and the door closes, cutting off the light from outside.

The expression 'Great minds think alike' refers to the serendipity of two or more people coming to the same conclusion at the same time, implying that they are clever or insightful.

There is a corollary to that expression, which is, 'And fools seldom differ'.

Tonight, as Dean and Cas enact a plan that is remarkably similar to the one that Ned, Chuck, and Olive are carrying out, it is difficult to be certain which one applies.

"The trick is to look like you know where you're going," Dean says to Cas. "Trying to be sneaky just draws people's attention."

With Baby parked three blocks away, Dean and Cas are walking casually to Mrs. Jacobs' house, as if they're just a couple of guys out for a moonlight stroll.

"We should have brought Miracle," Cas says. "Walking a dog would be excellent camouflage."

Dean's mind draws a picture of Miracle trotting out in front of them, stopping to sniff every tree and fire hydrant, a doggy grin on his furry face, and he says, "Next time!"

"We'll need to make sure—"

Cas doesn't get the chance to finish his thought as the rumble of a garage door cuts through the quiet night. Quickly, Dean tugs Cas into the shadowy space between two houses.

"It is unexpectedly convenient that Mrs. Jacobs is leaving now," Cas observes as they watch her back out of the garage and drive away.

"Never look a gift horse in the mouth," Dean says and, grinning at his own joke, elbows Cas. "Get it, Cas? Gift horse?"

"Yes, Dean, you are very amusing," Cas says flatly, but Dean isn't fooled; he knows Cas is trying not to smile.

The car hasn't been gone a full minute when Dean spots movement on the sidewalk. "Get a load of those guys," he whispers.

'Those guys' are three figures, darting erratically from house to house as they make their way along the street. The leader of the trio pauses frequently to look around before she beckons the others forward with noisy whispers and broad gestures.

"I see what you mean about walking normally," Cas says.

Dean shakes his head. "Are they wearing ski masks?"

They are, in fact, wearing ski masks.

The three stooges gather around the front door of Mrs. Jacobs' house, and Dean can make out the hiss of noisy whispers from all the way across the street.

"One of the three is our waitress," Cas notes.

"You think she's here for her trophy?"

"That seems likely."

A few seconds later the door opens and Olive and her two friends slip inside the house. The door closes behind them.

With the front door closed, Ned admits to himself that it is pretty dark—maybe not 'extra dark', but dark. As a consequence, he's managed to lose sight of Chuck.

"Chuck?" he whispers.

"Here!" she calls out at a normal volume.

Ned shuffles further down the pitch-dark hall, his hands carefully at his sides, wary of running into Chuck. Without warning, a hand clamps down on his shoulder and Ned shrieks.

"It's just me!" a voice says from behind him.

"Olive?" he whispers.

"Yeah," she whispers back, her small fingers creating five pinpoint bruises in his shoulder.

"Don't you have a flashlight?"

"Oh! Oh, yeah! My flashlight!"

The rustle of fabric as Olive searches for her flashlight sounds loud in the absolute darkness, and then there's a tiny click, and a narrow beam of light shoots down the hall. It illuminates Chuck, standing a scant arm's length away, cradling the trophy in her arms.

In his surprise, Ned stumbles back into Olive, making the light skitter around the hallway.

"Watch out!" she snaps.

"Sorry," Ned says, heart pounding. That was a near miss!

"I've got the MacGuffin!" Chuck says brightly. "Let's go!"

Okay, so maybe two steps are enough for a plan, Ned thinks as the tension starts to bleed out of his shoulders. That's when a ghostly horse pokes its head through the wall and bares its teeth, letting out a shrill horsey scream.

"So, what do you think? Do we go in after them, or wait until they come out?" Dean asks. With Mrs. Jacobs out of the way, the trio is probably safe, but—

"Dean!"

Dean looks to where Cas is pointing. "Is it my imagination, or is the statue moving?" he asks.

The statue seems to have turned liquid, flowing out of a frozen gallop and standing solidly on all four hooves. It steps off the granite base and raises its nose to sniff the air.

"It's not your imagination," Cas says.

The horse turns slowly, nostrils flaring. It seems to catch a scent and its eyes reflect fire. With an aggressive shake of its head and a blood-chilling neigh, it trots up onto the porch and walks right through the wall.

Without hesitation, Dean and Cas bolt for the house. They're halfway up the lawn when the front door slams open and Olive and her two friends tumble out, taking off in three different directions at once.

One of the two people who aren't Olive—the girl holding the trophy—crashes into Dean. She bounces off his chest, and the trophy falls from her hands and rolls across the grass. Cas scoops it up just as Olive barrels into him, so he has to drop the trophy in favor of catching her as she rebounds away.

Dean hears Olive's high voice say, "Cherry Pie?"

And then Cas shouts, "Dean!" and Dean looks up just in time to see the trophy flying at his face. In what feels like a miracle—or maybe just angelic-powered aim—Dean plucks it out of the air.

But there's no time for Dean to celebrate his catch because the growing roar of an engine alerts him to a new problem.

"Cherry Pie?" Olive says dazedly.

It feels like she bounced off a brick wall and not a man, but those broad shoulders are unmistakable; it's the customer from two nights ago.

She has no more than three seconds to register the confused squint on Cherry Pie's face before she finds herself staring at the man's broad back. He has put himself between her and the horse—which is now poking its nose out through the wall of the house.

Hysterically, Olive wonders how her cousin's podcast is going to report this.

Olive's protector shouts a single syllable, and then in a smooth underhand throw, sends the trophy sailing toward his friend. In a perfectly choreographed move, his friend (Apple Pie) snatches the trophy right out of the air, but when the sudden roar of an engine cuts through the night, he throws it on the ground and starts digging through his pockets.

The horse steps fully out of the house and Cherry Pie tenses as it turns its glowing eyes their way.

Then headlights throw shadows on the lawn, revealing Chuck struggling to get to her feet, with Ned hovering over her nervously.

And that's when Mrs. Jacobs' car shoots up onto the grass.

Dean drops the trophy in order to free his hands to search for the piece of motel stationery he wrote the spell on.

"Hurry up, hurry up, hurry up," he mutters to himself.

When Dean finally finds the scrap of paper in his back pocket, he unfolds it only to realize it's almost impossible to make out the words in the faint moonlight. If Sam finds out he didn't memorize the spell, he's never going to live it down.

That's when the whole yard lights up, and Dean has to skip out of the way to avoid Mrs. Jacobs' car.

Not-Olive seems frozen in the headlights, and the man in the ski mask shouts, "Chuck!" just before he yanks the girl out of the way. The car whizzes by her, catching on the statue's marble base and jerking to a stop.

The horse lets out another furious scream, and Dean turns his attention back to the spell. He can see Mrs. Jacobs out of the corner of his eye. The crash hasn't even slowed her down; she's out of the car and marching in his direction, her low, furious chant carrying over the whine of the car's damaged engine.

A static buzz raises the hair on Dean's arms, and the air takes on a purple glow as Mrs. Jacobs' chant gains volume. It's a race to the finish now, and the words tumble out of Dean's mouth so fast that he can only hope his pronunciation is correct. He can't stop to look, but the prickling on the back of his neck tells him she's close.

When Dean pronounces the final word of the spell, his ears pop. The purple haze clears, and when he looks around, Mrs. Jacobs is gone, and so is the horse.

Ned cradles Chuck's lifeless body and curses the instinct that made him pull her out of the way. With a speeding car, death would have only been a possibility; with his touch, it's certain.

He should have left it alone. Maybe Chuck would have escaped with nothing more than bruises and broken bones. Maybe she would have spent a few days in the hospital, a few weeks on crutches, and then everything would have gone back to normal—or as normal as things ever are for them.

Ned touches a gentle finger to Chuck's cheek. He has been granted his greatest wish, but in the worst possible way. It turns out that her skin is every bit as soft as Ned imagined it would be.

One touch sparks life—dead fruits ripen, sweet and golden.

A second brings death—rot, wilt, and decay.

A third brings nothing—the dead stay dead.

It's quiet in the aftermath of the spell. The air stinks of old-lady perfume, horse, and exhaust. The station wagon's engine has puttered to a stop, but the headlights are still on, throwing harsh shadows across the lawn.

With relief, Dean spots Cas heading his way. Olive is trailing after him looking dazed. And there's Ski Mask on the grass—his mask is off now, revealing a thin, pale face—and Not-Olive is—

Oh! Ski Mask didn't get to the girl in time.

"Are you alright?" Cas asks.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine, but…" he trails off, nodding towards Olive's friends.

"Chuck!" Olive cries.

It's only because they're standing so close that Dean recognizes Cas's sudden tension. "She means the girl," Dean says. "She's Chuck. The guy tried to get her out of the way, but he was too late."

"I don't know what Ned's going to do without Chuck," Olive says in a watery voice. "They never—Anyone could see how they felt about each other, but they never touched. Now they'll never get the chance."

Something twists in Dean's gut; they never touched.

The look on Ned's face is too familiar; Dean has seen it on his own face more than once. It was in the bathroom mirror of a run-down motel the day Cas walked into that lake. He saw it in Baby's rearview mirror when he drove away from the cabin where Jack was born, the smoke of a hunter's funeral still lingering in his clothes. Most recently, it was in his own bedroom mirror. He thought he would never get the chance to tell Cas he loved him too—that he had for a long time.

Dean knows Ned isn't like him; he isn't being kept apart from his girl by supernatural forces. They would have chosen not to be together—probably for some dumb reason, like one of them is afraid of commitment. But still…

"Cas," he says quietly.

"Yes, Dean."

"Look at them."

"I am," he says solemnly.

"Do you see it? She's the love of his life."

After a moment, Cas says, "I see it."

"I was thinking. Maybe you could"—Dean holds up two fingers—"you know. Just this once?"

"It would upset the natural order," Cas says—not like a no, more of an observation.

"Pfth! The natural order!" he scoffs. "She was hit by a station wagon—there's nothing natural about that."

"Hmm," Cas says noncommittally.

Dean swallows a lump in his throat. "When Jack was born… I held you like that." Cas has died a few times now, and that was the only time there was a body left to hold.

Cas sucks in a sharp breath and grips Dean's hand.

"It's okay," Dean says gruffly. "I got you back."

Cas is quiet for a while, and Dean starts to fidget—they don't have much time before the cops show up—but finally he says, "Just this once."

Dean squeezes Cas's hand. "Just this once," he agrees.

Cas lets go of Dean's hand and crosses the churned-up grass in five quick steps. He crouches down next to Ned and says, "I have some medical knowledge. Let me help you."

Without taking his eyes off his girl, Ned says, "There's nothing anyone can do. I already touched her once."

He isn't looking at Cas, so Ned doesn't see the gentle blue glow that passes from his hand to Chuck's shoulder just before her eyes spring open.

The last thing Chuck remembers is being frozen in the path of a pair of headlights. Like a—Like a—Well… Like a deer.

In the blink of an eye, the world turned itself upside down, and now Chuck is flat on her back, and Ned's shocked face is the only thing she sees.

"Did I die again?"

"Did you what again?" someone—Olive—asks sharply, reminding Chuck that they're not alone.

"Ha ha!" Ned says. (He says it just like that—two syllables: ha, ha.) "Again! That's probably your concussion talking!" He looks around nervously, and then he repeats "Ha ha!" for good measure.

Chuck rolls to her knees and turns to face him. "Yes, that must be it: my concussion." And then she adds, "Were you touching me?"

Ned lifts his hand and looks at it like he's never seen it before. "I was," he says slowly.

A smile breaks across Chuck's face. "I'm not dead," she says.

A more cautious smile grows on Ned's face. "You're not dead," he agrees.

"I'm going to kiss you now," Chuck announces.

Ned leans back and gives her a wary look. "Are you sure that's a good idea?" he asks.

"It's the best idea!"

Chuck rests her hands on Ned's shoulders, feeling his tension. His eyes are wide and frightened, but she doesn't let that stop her—she kisses him anyway. He is absolutely still for ten whole seconds (she counts), but then, as if some threshold has been passed, he cups her cheek tenderly and kisses her back.

They break apart and Ned says, "I kissed you," a note of awe in his voice.

"I kissed you!" she corrects.

"Yeah, yeah," someone says in a gruff voice, "he kissed you. You kissed him. That's great, but we have to get out of here before the cops show up."

Dean figures they can afford to give the lovebirds a little privacy to celebrate Chuck's miraculous resurrection, so he puts an arm around Cas's shoulders and steers him away.

"You did a good thing, Cas," he says.

"We did a good thing."

"What exactly did you do?" Olive asks, making Dean jump.

"Hey, I hear sirens! Anyone else hear sirens?" he says quickly and goes back to the happy couple, getting there just in time to see them pull apart.

"I kissed you," Ned says, giving his girl a dopey smile.

"I kissed you!" she says, smiling back at him—just as dopey.

Before this can turn into one of those you-hang-up-first situations, Dean rubs his inexplicably damp eyes and says, "Yeah, yeah, he kissed you. You kissed him. That's great, but we have to get out of here before the cops show up."

They blink at him in confusion for a few seconds before they climb slowly to their feet, hampered by their unwillingness to let go of each other's hands. With his eyes glued to Chuck's face, Ned mumbles something, and all Dean can make out is 'meet' and 'pie hole' before the duo begin a stumbling trek down the sidewalk—hopefully in the direction of their car.

"They're going to be lucky if they don't walk into a lamp post," Olive notes, but her eyes are a little damp and her voice is fond.

The facts are these: neither of them walks into a lamp post. However, Ned trips over a fire hydrant.

"Shouldn't you be going with them?" Dean asks.

Olive waves him off. "I'm no third wheel!" Then she picks up her trophy and says, "So, where are you boys parked?"

With the ominous wee-woo-wee of sirens in the distance, there's no time to argue, so Dean just says, "Follow me," and they take off at a jog.

This time, no one would mistake them for anything but what they are: three people fleeing the scene of a crime.

They manage to dive inside the car just seconds before a police car zooms by. As soon as the street is dark again, Dean raises his head to look around, and when he's sure the coast is clear, he starts Baby's engine and edges away from the curb, trying to exude an air of innocence.

A second police car passes them before they pull onto the highway, but the Impala doesn't merit a second glance.

When the sirens have faded away, Olive lets out a whoosh of relief and sags into her seat. "That was close! You boys probably saved our lives!"

Cas murmurs a polite, "You're welcome."

"Probably?" Dean says. "Did you even have a plan? You and your friends were just going to Pink Panther your way into the old lady's house? Then what?"

"There was a plan!" Olive says defensively, crossing her arms over her chest. "It was all Emerson's fault! He was supposed to keep the old witch busy!"

"It wouldn't have mattered," Cas says, sounding apologetic. "You couldn't have stopped Mrs. Jacobs without the counterspell."

Olive huffs and turns her head to look out the window. "It could have worked," she mutters. "You don't know everything."

"Actually—" Cas starts, but Dean clears his throat pointedly. When Cas looks at him, Dean shakes his head and mouths, "Let it go."

Cas rolls his eyes, but he doesn't say anything else, and the remainder of the drive is made in silence.

------

With Pinky McCoy's bar closed indefinitely, downtown's nightlife is nonexistent, and there's plenty of on-street parking. Dean pulls up in front of The Pie Hole and parks behind a sporty red convertible.

A man gets out of the car, and Olive growls "Emerson!" just before she leaps out of the back seat.

Presumably this is the same 'Emerson' who was in charge of the diversion. Olive charges forward, and he backpedals until he hits the wall of The Pie Hole, his hands out in a conciliatory way. Dean can't make out his words, but the tone is defensive.

"Should we help?" Cas asks, frowning at the pair.

"Which one?" Dean laughs. Olive has the look of a chihuahua successfully menacing a pit bull, and Dean imagines tugging on her leash.

"I'll just text Jack and Sam then. They should know we resolved the case."

Castiel texts as follows: a racehorse emoji, a smiling ghost emoji, a skull emoji, and a thumbs up. Immediately followed by a second text: a witch emoji, a tombstone emoji, thumbs up.

Jack responds 12 seconds later with his own thumbs up, followed by three blue hearts and, inexplicably, a unicorn emoji.

Sam replies 4 hours and 36 minutes later: ok.

A third car arrives, and another shout of "Emerson!" rings out, and Dean and Cas watch, bemused, as Chuck clambers out of the passenger seat, tugging Ned behind her with a firm grip on his hand.

While Emerson looks to Ned for support, Olive and Chuck join forces to harangue him. Ned seems unbothered, that dopey smile still in place. With one of his hands snug in Chuck's, he uses the other to unlock the front door and hold it open.

Emerson slinks in, followed by Chuck and then Ned. Olive holds the door open and motions for Dean and Cas to join them.

------

Thirty minutes later, Ned and Chuck are on one side of a booth, pressed together from knee to shoulder, and Dean and Cas are on the other, seated in much the same way. Olive has taken a chair, pulled up to the end of the booth, and Emerson is seated a safe distance away on a stool at the counter.

Ned has produced two whole pies for them to share (apple crumble and rhubarb), and Olive has served generous slices. When Cas requested ice cream, she winked at him and said, "Anything for my heroes."

It's an unexpectedly nice post-hunt celebration. The girls are boisterous in their account of the night's adventure, making the encounter with Mrs. Jacobs and the horse ghost sound thrilling instead of terrifying. Emerson has many questions, eyeing Dean and Cas curiously.

Ned, on the other hand, is quiet. Dean knows the look; he's trying to adjust his worldview to make room for the events of the night. Finally he says, "She wasn't really a witch. Was she?"

Dean considers the question that isn't really a question; he knows what Ned hopes he'll say. "What if I told you it was a gas leak?" he offers.

"Then I would be both relieved and grateful," Ned says.

"It wasn't a gas leak," Chuck says. At Ned's pleading look, she adds a gentle, "Ned, you know it wasn't."

"I know what you are," Olive says. "You're hunters."

"You know about hunters?" Dean asks, surprised.

"My cousin told me all about them," she says matter-of-factly. "You hunt the things that go bump in the night. My cousin has a podcast—maybe you've heard of it? Twi-Hard?"

"Kristen Swan is your cousin?" Cas asks. Dean shoots him a look, and Cas shrugs. "Sam listens to it."

Castiel is, in fact, a regular listener.

"Mrs. Jacobs was a witch," Chuck says firmly.

Cas says, "That's correct. She focused her considerable abilities to achieve a single outcome: she made her son a successful jockey—"

"A one-trick pony, you might say," Dean interrupts.

"—but when her son died, she turned her power to revenge."

Ned nods reluctantly. "Okay, fine. But what about Chuck? I know dead, and Chuck was dead."

Dean knows the answer to that question won't make Ned happy. If he doesn't want to believe in witches, telling him about angels and capital-D Death is going to cause the guy an existential crisis.

Gently—firmly—Cas says, "It was a miracle."

Dean nods. "Yeah, what he said: a miracle."

"A miracle," Ned repeats. "Okay. Good."

Chuck smiles. "A miracle. I like the sound of that."

A miracle. Ned likes the sound of that too.

The 'hunters' left half an hour ago, Ned's rhubarb pie recipe tucked safely in Dean's shirt pocket. See, Olive? People do too like rhubarb!

Olive left fifteen minutes later, but not before giving Ned and Chuck a stern lecture about workplace PDA.

Emerson must have ghosted out some time after the hunters but before Olive—there one minute and gone the next—but there's a text on Ned's phone that reads, "do u still have the touch?"

When Ned read it, he almost dropped his phone. Now he has a wary eye fixed on a bowl of bruised and shriveled apples.

Chuck comes up behind him and wraps her arms around his waist. "What's wrong?" she asks. When Ned doesn't answer, she peers around him. "Spider?"

"What?" Ned says, turning in her arms so he can look at her.

"Spider," she repeats. "You looked scared of the apples, so I thought there might be a spider in the bowl. I know how you are about spiders."

"No, no spider," he says, but then he gives the bowl a suspicious look and adds, "At least I don't think so."

Chuck smiles up at him. "No spiders—that's good. So what's wrong?"

"Uh…" Ned says.

It's a good question. One that Ned isn't sure he knows the answer to. Is he worried that he'll touch the apples and nothing will happen? As recently as yesterday, Ned would have said he'd be overjoyed, but now, confronted with the possibility, he's not so sure that it's true. Who is he without his gift?

With a start, he realizes this is the first time he's thought of his power that way: a gift. His power brought Chuck back to him—and that was a gift. He would always take her alive and untouchable over not at all. But it was still a monkey's paw: everything he ever wanted, just out of reach.

Chuck is still waiting for an answer. Hesitantly, Ned says, "What if—do you think I still—what do you think…?" He trails off and turns his eyes to the lifeless apples again.

"Oh," Chuck says, making that single syllable sound like she understands exactly what Ned is trying to say—which is good because he doesn't understand himself right now.

She wraps her hand around his wrist and says, "It's okay. We'll find out together."

Under Ned's hand, the apple grows round and red and juicy again, and Ned realizes that what he feels is relief.

"You're still Ned," Chuck says.

"Still Ned," he agrees. He wraps his arms around Chuck and rests his cheek on her hair, and they stand together just like that for a very long time.

A truly omniscient narrator would be able to provide the exact number of times that Ned and Chuck will touch each other now that they are able.

The facts are these: that number is uncountable.

But I can assure you, dear reader, that Ned and Chuck will touch often.

Accidentally.

Casually.

Deliberately.

Sometimes just to remind themselves that they can.

And always with love.

The facts are these: it was a miracle.

With three pies, boxed and carefully stored on the seat between them, Cas and Dean set out for home. Despite the fact that the radio is tuned to Top 40, Dean sings along unselfconsciously.

"Prayed for an angel to come in the night and shine some sweet light on me," he croons, giving Cas a signifigant look.

Cas brings his deep baritone to the chorus and, in their specific harmony, they sing, "Ooh, you're some kind of miracle. Oh, you, you, you are, you're a miracle to me."

After the song ends, Cas says, "I believe that Ned and Chuck will be happy together."

"Yeah," Dean agrees. "I have a good feeling about those two."

Cas smiles softly. "Did you see how they looked at each other? It was like there isn't anyone else they'd rather look at."

Dean doesn't respond and Cas looks across the seat to see that his eyes are shiny. "Dean, are you alright?"

Dean shakes his head and clears his throat. Then he nods and reaches over the pies to take Cas's hand. "It's just—I know what you mean, sweetheart. That's exactly how you've always looked at me."

The facts are these: a simple touch would not have brought instant death to Dean or Castiel, but forces, both internal and external, kept them apart for a very long time.

Then a day came and they realized that they could touch each other—that touch was, in fact, welcome.

So they did.

And they do.

And they will.

An uncountable number of times.

The End