Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Song Recommendation: Daughter of Witches by EchoesOfVelandria

The waxing gibbous, almost full moon glowed brightly against a cloudless, starlit sky over a dirt road in the middle of nowhere. A warm breeze stirred the trees, leaves rustling softly as branches creaked and groaned a little. In the distance, a low growl became the loud rumble of an approaching engine; at the crest of the ridge, twin beams sliced through the darkness, bright beacons of light, as the car came to a momentary stop, engine humming idly.

“Are you sure this is the way?” Dean Winchester’s voice held a slightly irritable snap as he glared at his younger brother, “This road’s more dirt and holes than asphalt, it’s gonna wreck Baby’s suspension at this rate.”

“According to the map, yeah, this is the way,” Sam was holding a torch to a partially unfolded road map, peering at it with an uncertainty that Dean did not find reassuring, “this place is about as far from any decent roads as it’s possible to be.”

“I’m just sayin’, we’ve had more than one wrong turn along the way…”

“Look, it’s not my fault we don’t have any GPS signal out here and you can’t tell left from right.”

“Okay, that happened one time, and I definitely wasn’t the one who insisted on driving through a friggin’ cow field. Baby’s gonna need the full tune up and valet when we get back to the Bunker, and I ain’t the one who’s gonna be cleaning the cow crap outta her undercarriage, you hear me?”

Sam sighed in a mixture of resignation and irritation; “Yeah, okay, whatever. Look, just carry on down the road a mile or so and there should be a crossroads. If I’m wrong, we can turn back, find somewhere to park up until morning and then try again in daylight, if that’s what you wanna do?”

Dean gave a huff of his own, shook his head, shifted the car into drive, and continued down the uneven, bumpy track that could barely be described as a road. After a few minutes, sure enough, a crossroads came into view with an old-fashioned, wooden sign with arrows pointing the way.

“See,” there was a note of satisfaction in Sam’s voice, “Alderwick. Turn left here… and left is that way.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean muttered, ignoring his brother’s emphatic pointing as he hauled on the wheel, making the sharp left.

It was not long before they reached the first outlying signs of habitation, and the road finally began to smooth out a little, though the Impala still bumped and jolted over the occasional pothole that spoke of a lack of maintenance in the outlying areas of the small town. They passed through a few farmsteads and a large, sprawling orchard before getting into the more residential areas, and Dean breathed a sigh of relief on behalf of his Baby as the roads finally became proper asphalt.

“You sure this is the right place?”

“Positive,” Sam nodded, “the news reports were clear. Five missing teenage girls all abducted from their beds in the middle of the night, without their families hearing or seeing anything. Doors and windows were locked and undisturbed, even the family dog had raised no alarm in the households that had them, and in one case a sibling in the same room slept straight through the abduction undisturbed…”

“And you did that thing; what did you call it?”

“Geographical profiling,” Sam supplied, a note of amusement in his voice, “the five targeted houses were equally distanced apart, and then I realised; if I drew a pentagram on the map, each one was at the point of the star…”

“With the ass-end of nowhere smack bang in the middle,” Dean concluded, gesturing to the darkened houses around them, “it’s gotta be witches.”

“Yeah,” agreed Sam.

“Nasty, skeevy bitches,” Dean grumbled, “what they hell would they want with five young teenage girls…? Actually, no, no, no, don’t answer that, I don’t want to know…”

“There are a lot of very dark, very powerful spells that call for the sacrifice of innocents,” Sam commented, grimly, “and that’s without considering the possibility of…”

“Sam! I said I didn’t want to know!” Dean cut him off, sharply, “Those kids are gonna be fine, and we’re gonna find ‘em alive!”

“Uh… yeah. Yeah, obviously. Yeah. Sorry.”

“Good! Now, let’s see if we can find somewhere to stay…”

They cruised through a few residential streets as Sam squinted at the map and gave a tired shrug.

“Alderwick may be marked on this map but none of these roads are,” he commented, peering at it, “this map might be out of date…”

“Unless it’s from the sixteen-hundreds, I doubt it,” Dean remarked, peering at the old, colonial-style buildings that surrounded them, “this place ain’t exactly new…”

“Seen anything that looks like a motel?” Sam asked, hopefully.

“Not yet.”

Driving slowly around the town, it was eerily quiet, not another car moving on the street; but then again, it was so late at night that it was becoming early morning. Dean drove methodically up and down the streets as Sam gave up on the useless map, folding it up and tossing it carelessly onto the back seat. They soon found themselves cruising up what appeared to be the centre of town; shuttered-up shops and other amenities, an utterly deserted street.

“Even the liquor store’s closed,” Dean sounded both surprised and a little disappointed, “seriously, what kind of town doesn’t have a twenty-four-seven somewhere?”

Sam had pulled out his phone and was frowning at it deeply.

“Still no cell service,” he commented, “that’s weird…”

“Maybe they don’t have cell phones out here,” Dean sighed, “we’re in the butt-crack of nowhere… hey, look – Sheriff’s office, over there.”

Dean pointed as he slowed the car down and Sam followed his gaze; sure enough, there was a small station building tucked between a laundromat and a diner, though all the lights were off and it was clear that there was nobody around.

“Guess that’ll have to wait until daylight,” said Sam, tiredly, “it’s, uh… coming up for three-thirty, so we’ve probably got a good four or five hours or so before anyone shows up.”

“Let’s just find somewhere to park up outta town and we can get a couple of hours’ sleep,” Dean decided, feeling as road-weary as his younger brother, “as soon as that diner opens, I’m gonna want coffee and a decent breakfast and we can get started.”

“Sounds good,” Sam readily agreed.

Dean drove through the town and out onto a dirt road once more; finding a secluded lay-by surrounded by old, towering trees, he parked up, and Sam obligingly climbed out of the passenger seat; there were a couple of old blankets in the trunk that he fetched, getting into the back seat and tossing one to Dean, who gave a jaw-cracking yawn as he grabbed it and wrapped it around himself gratefully.

“G’night, Sam.”

“Yeah. ‘Night, Dean.”

The two brothers sprawled across the Impala’s bench seats, listening to the chitter of insects, the occasional call of a nocturnal animal from outside the car, and the familiar cadence of each other’s breathing, as they both drifted off to sleep.

Weak, pale sunlight glittered off the polished paintwork of the Impala, morning dew condensing on the windscreen as Dean stirred and groaned softly, stretching and yawning as he pushed off the blanket and rose into a seated position with a slight shiver. He picked up the rolled-up jacket he had used as a pillow and pulled it on, rubbing his eyes and combing a hand through his dishevelled hair. He turned and glanced over his shoulder; Sam was still fast asleep, half-curled on his side, one hand tucked under his cheek, and Dean grinned with mischievous delight. He slid the key into the ignition, cranked the radio volume up to maximum, and then turned the key.

The engine roared to life, the stereo screamed a heavy guitar riff, and Sam jolted upright so fast the suspension bounced, and Dean laughed aloud as he dialled down the volume to a more comfortable level.

“Mornin’, Sammy!”

“Oh… for God’s sake, Dean,” Sam groaned, folding his arms and leaning against the back of the front seat, “you’re such an asshole.”

“Bitch.”

“Jerk.”

“Heh-heh,” Dean chuckled, still amused, “c’mon, sleepyhead. Rise and shine. Let’s go get breakfast.”

Sam shoved his blanket down into the footwell but did not bother getting into the front seat for the short drive back into the town of Alderwick. Dean parked right outside the diner; it was just gone seven in the morning, and the place had clearly only just opened up. There was still nobody around on the streets, so the brothers got out of their car; Dean locked it up, then they headed into the diner.

A large, middle-aged man behind the counter raised his gaze and his eyebrows lifted in surprise at the sight of two strangers. He wore a blue-striped shirt under a grease-stained apron, and he ran a hand through his thinning hair, unconsciously straightening himself up as the two brothers walked in. There was a name tag attached to his apron that read “Earl” in sloppy, hand-written blue ink.

“Mornin’,” Dean greeted him with a friendly smile, “you open for breakfast?”

“Sure thing, son, but it’s just me until the waitress gets in at eight-thirty. Take a seat, I’ll be right with ya. You boys want some coffee?”

“Sure do. Thanks.”

Dean chose a booth by the window where he could keep an eye on the Impala and the comings and goings of the street outside – not that there were any at this time of the morning. Sam slid into the seat opposite him, and Dean snagged a couple of tattered menus from the holder, dropping one in front of his younger brother. The diner owner, Earl, soon joined them, depositing two mugs of steaming hot, black coffee in front of them.

“Don’t get many visitors from outta town,” he said, without preamble, “never seen you boys around here before.”

“Yeah, we’re here on business,” Dean replied, mildly, “could do with a place to stay, there a motel anywhere near here?”

“This ain’t Vegas,” Earl snorted, “Missus Mayweather runs a guest house on Juniper Drive, she always has a room or two to rent, I’ll give ya the address if ya like?”

“That’d be swell, thanks,” Dean nodded, with a smile, “appreciate it.”

“You wanna order some food?”

“Oh, definitely. I’ll have the bacon and maple pancakes, double the stack, extra bacon, extra crispy.”

“Uh… I’ll have the mushroom omelette,” Sam nodded, with a quick smile of his own, “thanks.”

Earl gave a slight nod and headed off towards the kitchen. Sam pulled out his cellphone, frowning a little when he realised that he still had no signal.

“This place is some kind of dead zone,” he commented, dropping the useless device back into his pocket.

“This place is dead full stop,” Dean remarked, glancing around, “getting a real creepy vibe from this case already.”

“We’ve gotta find those kids,” Sam sighed, glancing over his shoulder and then back to his brother, “and fast…”

“Yeah, no argument from me. We’ll eat, we’ll kit up in suits, and then we’ll see if the Sheriff knows anything.”

Sam shifted a little in his seat and gazed out of the window. The residents of Alderwick were just starting to stir, a few cars on the street moving slowly, the unhurried pace of isolated small-town life. The cars were all older models, and the clothing worn by the few pedestrians was drab, conservative, and not one of them seemed to be carrying anything resembling a cell phone, tablet, or laptop. In fact, there was very little evidence of modern technology to be seen anywhere; the town looked as if all progress had halted decades ago, without anyone noticing.

Several minutes later, Earl returned, carrying two plates, setting them down on the table.

“There ya go, boys. Need anything else?”

“Um, yeah, actually,” Sam leaned forward a little, meeting his gaze evenly, “is there anywhere around here we can get a cell signal or some WiFi?”

“No cell service out here, kid, landline’s over there if ya wanna make a call. Ya might find an internet connection at the library, but I don’t bother with any of that rubbish here.”

“Uh, yeah… okay. Thanks.”

“No problem. Enjoy – yell if ya need anything else.”

“Thanks,” Dean nodded, already reaching for his cutlery, “thank God; food, I’m starving…”

Dean had already shoved the first forkful of his breakfast into his mouth before Sam had even picked up a utensil.

“It’s going to be hard to do research on this case if I can’t find a decent internet connection,” Sam commented, toying idly with his fork as he surveyed the rubbery-looking omelette dumped on his plate; there was not even any garnish or sides, just a folded heap of over-fried egg with a few indistinct grey blobs that might have been mushrooms mixed in, “There are a few books in the car, but… I could do with the resources back at the Bunker if we are dealing with some serious spell work.”

“Good job Cas is there, he can run research for us if needed.”

“And, uh… what’s the landline number for the Bunker, if we’ve got no cell service?”

Dean hesitated, mid-chew, and considered this, then he grinned; “Who needs a cell phone when you’ve got prayer?”

“If he can even hear us,” Sam sighed, poking the omelette with dwindling enthusiasm for the unappetising food.

Dean caught his expression and smirked a little; “What’s the matter, Sam? Food envy?”

Sam had to admit; the pancakes did look a lot better than the omelette… even drowned in maple syrup with a heavy helping of crispy bacon on top.

“It’s fine, I’m just not that hungry,” he lied, taking a bite and trying not to grimace at the awful texture; “do you remember the sigil burned onto the ceilings above the beds of the missing girls?”

“Hard to forget,” Dean winced; although they had not visited the scenes of the disappearances, they had hacked into the five different police databases of the jurisdictions where the girls had gone missing and downloaded the crime scene photos, “it mean somethin’ to you?”

“I think it might be a translocation spell,” Sam nodded, slowly, picking reluctantly at his food, well aware of Dean’s amusement at his obvious disgust for the dish before him, “a very powerful one. Very ancient…”

“Not good?”

“Very not good,” Sam agreed, taking another bite of what both tasted and had a texture like wet rubber, then winced as he swallowed, “you know what? To hell with it. That’s awful. Gimme one of those pancakes.”

“What…? I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that.”

Sam heaved a heavy sigh, schooling his face into a neutral expression.

“Dean. Please can I have one of your pancakes?”

“Oh… is there something wrong with the healthy omelette you specifically asked for, despite there being bacon and maple pancakes right there on the menu?”

Sam pulled a face; “It’s incredible. Somehow, it’s soggy and dry at the same time, and it was cooked in hatred and disappointment rather than a pan and oil. It’s like eating wet cardboard that doesn’t know what seasoning is, and the way it’s folded it’s like it’s ashamed of itself. Eating this isn’t breakfast, it’s a lesson in gastronomic torture. Happy now?”

Dean chuckled but obligingly dumped a couple of maple-soaked pancakes from his double-stack onto Sam’s plate, grinning as his brother took a forkful, chewed, swallowed, and sighed with relief.

“You want some bacon with that?”

“You’d share bacon?” Sam raised an eyebrow.

“If I thought you’d actually eat it, it might be worth it to get you off that pussy-assed health-food crap,” Dean gestured with his fork to the abandoned omelette, “but nah… you’re right; this is mine, and it’s good.”

He picked up a piece of bacon and bit into it, chewing with obvious relish, as Sam rolled his eyes. Outside the window, the sun was rising higher in the sky, but there was no warmth in the weak rays; it was late autumn, and the trees lining the street were already russet-brown, gold, and orange, their leaves drifting lazily to the ground in the breeze that stirred the branches, swaying gently.

“Hey,” Dean’s voice brought him back to the present, as he hastily took another forkful of the pancakes, raising questioning eyes to his older brother, “where’s your head at? You look a million miles away.”

“I dunno,” Sam admitted, swallowing the food; it really was good, a vast improvement on his first choice for breakfast, as he reached for his coffee, “just got a really… weird feeling about this place, this case.”

“Yeah, well, anything that involves missing kids is gonna be a tough one,” Dean agreed, skewering another piece of pancake and swirling it through the syrup pooling on his plate, “the sooner we can get this one solved and get those kids home, the better.”

“No argument from me,” Sam polished off the last of his two pancakes; he was debating the merits of asking Dean for a third one, only to find one dumped onto his plate with a syrupy splat; he shot his brother a surprised but grateful look; “oh… thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

They finished off their breakfasts at a leisurely pace; Earl came by, topped off their coffees, and they lounged back on the seats as the hour ticked by to a more reasonable time. Dean eventually downed the last of his coffee and rose to his feet, crossing to the counter, where he settled the bill and added a reasonable tip.

“You got the address for that guesthouse?”

“Sure, son… here.”

Earl pulled out an old address book, flicking through the pages, and then jotting down an address and a telephone number on his order pad, tearing off the slip and handed it over to Dean, who thanked him and tucked it into his back pocket.

“Right, I’m gonna suit up – I’ll go grab our gear from the car.”

“Sure, thanks.”

Dean fetched their suits from the Impala, carrying them in their bags and hangers, re-entering the diner, handing Sam’s over to his younger brother as he passed, and then heading straight to the restroom. Earl raised an eyebrow at him, but said nothing when he re-emerged in the suit and polished shoes, his gun concealed in the holster beneath his jacket. He gave the diner proprietor a smile and a nod, as Sam pushed himself to his feet and similarly went to get washed up and changed, coming out of the bathroom finger-combing his hair into place.

“Alright,” Dean nodded, approvingly, “let’s do this. Earl? Thanks – we’ll probably see you around.”

“Sure thing, boys,” the older man gave them a wary look and a nod, “you, uh… you go careful now. See ya…”

Heading back out to the car, they dumped their casual clothes into the trunk and then turned back, making their way to the Sheriff’s office next door. The door was unlocked, and it opened straight into a tiny reception; there was a cramped desk behind a protective screen, and a single door off to one side, with a couple of chairs crammed up against the wall. It was barely big enough for the brothers to stand side by side, and there was no one at the desk, just an old-fashioned silver press-bell on the top of the desk. Dean exchanged an amused look with Sam, grinned, and dinged the bell three times in quick succession.

They waited for several long moments; Dean’s hand hovered over the bell ready to hit again, when from somewhere behind the desk, there was a clattering of noise and then the sound of a door opening, and the Sheriff herself appeared behind the desk. She drew back in slight surprise at the sight of two smart-suited strangers waiting at the counter.

“Uh… can I help you?”

“Agent Savage,” Dean introduced himself, holding up his badge, “and Agent Elliott, FBI. We’d like to speak to you about a case involving some missing girls.”

“Ain’t no missing girls around here.”

“From out of town,” Sam supplied, “we have reason to believe they may be here in Alderwick, or at least close by.”

The Sheriff eyed them with a mixture of suspicion and trepidation; Dean would have bet good money she had never dealt with even the State Police in such an isolated town, let alone the FBI. She was in her mid- to late-thirties, with dusty brown hair pulled back into a ponytail that brushed the nape of her neck. A silver chain hung around her neck with a crescent moon and star pendant at her throat, and her uniform was freshly pressed, crisp and clean. She hesitated for a moment longer, and then reached under the desk, pressing some kind of release switch.

“Come on through.”

She jerked her chin towards the door. Dean nodded to her and led the way through the narrow doorway; it opened up into a bullpen-style office with four desks facing each other, separated by divider screens about the same height as the bulky, nineties-era computer monitors on each desk. Three of the desks were empty, the other held a few files and some stationery. The walls were lined with metal filing cabinets, and an ancient printer stood on a desk to one side, next to the water cooler and a small kitchenette that seemed to hold a coffee percolator and little else. At the far end of the room were a couple of doors; one was helpfully labelled ‘Holding Cells’, the other read ‘Sheriff’.

“My deputy gets in at nine,” the Sheriff said, as if by way of explanation for the otherwise empty office, “I’m Sheriff Heather Chadwick. We can talk here – I was just about to make some coffee, you want some?”

“Sure,” Dean agreed, readily, as if he had not just had two cups already, “thanks.”

They stood in awkward silence for a few minutes as the Sheriff set about making coffee; she turned away from the pot while it percolated, then leaned back against the worktop, folded her arms, and eyed them again mistrustfully.

“So… you wanna run that by me again? Somethin’ about some missing girls?”

“Over the last two weeks, five girls have gone missing from surrounding towns,” Sam was carrying the file of printouts they had taken from various police databases, glad that he had gone to the effort of making hard copies, holding the file out to her, “Alderwick is right in the middle of these five locations, and we have reason to believe the kidnappers may have brought the girls here, or at least passed through the area.”

Chadwick reached out and took the brown folio, opening it and flicking through it idly, barely skimming her eyes over the contents, before snapping it shut and proffering it back.

“I don’t recognise any of ‘em and there’s been no reports of strangers in town. I think you’re wastin’ your time and mine, Agents. I suggest you go look somewhere else.”

“And I suggest you take a more thorough look through that file,” Sam said, coolly, making no move to take back the sheaf of papers, “because we intend to explore every possible lead. There are five missing girls aged between fourteen and sixteen out there somewhere and we are going to reunite them with their families.”

“And what makes you think they’re here, of all places?” Chadwick was around five-foot-seven and had to angle her chin slightly to look up at the two men, her expression one of pinched suspicion, “Nobody comes to Alderwick on a whim and if any strangers show up, I’d soon know about it. Everyone knows everyone in a town like this.”

“Who said it was a stranger?” Dean rejoined, “Could be one of the locals for all you know.”

At that remark, the Sheriff’s expression turned decidedly sour; “Now you listen here, Agent. I was born and raised in this town, been here my whole life. I know these people – I know the good ones from the bad ones and the most trouble we ever get is a drunk and disorderly on a weekend when some of the local boys get loaded an’ fall out over a poker game. If there was some sick pervert in this town, I’d know about it, and the son of a bitch would’a been run outta here long before the damn Feds caught wind of it, and that’s if the locals didn’t lynch ‘em first.”  

“Look,” Sam held up a placating hand, his tone soothingly, “we don’t mean to imply anything like that. We just have to explore every possible lead; the families of these missing girls are understandably desperate to get them home, and so are we. We’re conducting the same routine investigation in every town along the routes the kidnapper could have followed. We’ll only be in town for a day or two to do our due diligence, and then we’ll move on to the next town, okay?”

Chadwick glowered at him for a moment; Dean flicked a quick glance at his brother and then at the Sheriff; sure enough, the earnest sincerity in Sam’s expression thawed her cold fury a little, and Dean suppressed a smirk of amusement.

“Alright. So… what do you want from me?”

“Everything you’ve already said,” Sam replied, warmly, lacing his tone with gratitude, “an honest assessment of the locals and an indication on the likelihood of those missing girls being around here somewhere. Anything else that you can tell us about Alderwick and its residents, anyone who might know something about any strangers passing through that might not have come to your attention, or other local towns that might be worth us checking out, that sort of thing.”

“Not a lot happens in this town that don’t come to my attention,” Chadwick snorted, derisively, “and the nearest town to here is a good hours’ drive south of here, but we don’t really have much to do with folks outside of Alderwick. The convenience store and the bar get deliveries once a month and that’s about it.”

“Well, a bar’s always a good place to start with talking to the locals,” Dean commented, with a grin.

“Not dressed like that it ain’t,” Chadwick arched her eyebrow and raked her sharp gaze up and down his suit, “folks around here’ll take one look at those monkey suits and laugh you boys right outta the door.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I look just as good in jeans and flannel,” Dean replied, smoothly, “here, my card. We’ll be staying at, uh…”

“Lemme guess. Mrs Mayweather’s? Yeah, it’s the only boarding house in town and the last time she had guests was last Christmas. It don’t take a detective genius to figure that one out, Fed.”

“Clearly,” said Dean, dryly, earning himself another sour look from the Sheriff, “you think of anything else that might help, you call me, understood?”

Chadwick snorted and turned her piercing gaze to Sam; “Nah. You seem like the one with sole custody of your shared brain cell, I’d rather call you. Gimme your card.”

Sam gave a breath of a laugh, then reached into his inside jacket pocket, pulling out a business card and handing it over obligingly. The Sheriff eyed them both and then tossed the cards carelessly into the nearest wastepaper basket.

“Cell numbers? Yeah, they ain’t worth the paper they’re printed on around here, you idiots. I already know Mrs Mayweather’s number, I’ll call you there if anything comes up… which it won’t. Your fancy tech and city-boy attitudes don’t mean shit around here, Agents. I hope you know how to dial a landline and survive without an internet connection… because folks around here sure do.”

“Well, this was an absolutely charming start to our stay in this lovely little town of yours, Sheriff,” Dean smiled, sarcasm lacing his tone, “it’s been a pleasure talkin’ to ya.”

“Feelin’s mutual. You’re barkin’ up the wrong tree, Agent, you ain’t gonna find anythin’ around here but farmers and retired folk wantin’ a quiet life. Enjoy your stay; you won’t be here long.”

The Sheriff raised one hand and gestured pointedly towards the door. Sam raised a tight smile.

“Thank you for your time, Sheriff,” he said, stiffly polite, and headed straight for the door.

Dean followed him out, chuckling a little to himself as they stepped back outside into the pale autumn sunlight; “Well, that was delightful. Never even got that cup of coffee.”

“Probably didn’t help that we basically just accused her of harbouring a child abductor somewhere in her town,” Sam pointed out, dryly, “looks like we aren’t getting any help from the local law enforcement.”

“Eh, it’s probably better that way, saves them sticking their noses into somethin’ they won’t understand anyway,” Dean shrugged, dismissively, “okay, so it’s a small town with not a lot goin’ on. Where do you wanna start?”

“Guess we should go and check into the guest house,” Sam shrugged, “at least then if the Sheriff does have a change of heart, or if something does come up, we’ll be reachable there.”

“Yeah, and the owners of those kinds of places are usually elderly gossips who know all the dirty secrets in a town like this,” Dean warmed to the idea immediately, “I’m calling it now. Old lady, glasses on a chain around her neck, flowery blouse and a grey cardigan, house full of creepy looking ornaments, smells like boiled cabbage, calls everyone ‘dearie’, more than willing to spill the dirt on her neighbours… yeah, sounds like a good place to start. You got the address?”

“I thought you had it?”

“Oh, yeah…” Dean patted down his pockets as Sam watched in half-amusement, “where did I…?”

“Probably in your jeans pocket, Dean. The ones you were wearing in the diner when the owner gave you the address.”

“You know what? I just remembered. It’s in my jeans pocket, the ones I was wearing in the diner.”

“You’re a genius. Whatever would I do without you?”

“Starve to death on a diet of crappy omelettes and no coffee,” Dean rejoined, “c’mon. Let’s go, I can practically feel the Sheriff glaring at us through that window. Better look busy.”

Dean retrieved the address from the pocket of his jeans in the trunk of the Impala, handed it straight over to Sam, and climbed into the car. Sam automatically got his phone out to use the satnav, groaned in realisation, and shoved it back into his pocket.

“Well?” Dean asked, starting the engine, “Where are we goin’?”

“Seventeen Juniper Drive.”

“Which way?”

“Haven’t a clue,” Sam shrugged, turning down the corners of his mouth briefly as his did so, “No signal for GPS and none of the roads in this town appear on the map, so…”

“Old school it is then,” Dean sighed, slipped the car into drive, and pulled away from the curb.

Alderwick was an old, small town, and it did not take long for Dean to find Juniper Drive; many of the roads were named after trees, and it nestled on the outskirts of the residential area, surrounded by the old forests that dominated most of the landscape. Alderwick was in a valley of sorts, surrounded by rolling hills that were predominantly either woodlands, farmlands, or sprawling old orchards. The age of the town weighed heavily upon it, as if the imposing houses remembered their hundreds of years of history, and the residents were little more than passing shadows.

Seventeen Juniper Drive had no front garden, unlike its verdant neighbours, the whole yard surrounded by a low fence and turned into a gravel driveway for parking. There were no other cars present, but the house also had a garage attached, so if the proprietress had a vehicle of her own, it was no doubt stored inside. The house itself was a towering, four-storey affair with a white-washed façade that had seen better days; there were large flower urns either side of the porch that held more weeds than blooms, and the driveway was thick with the unraked leaves fallen from the surrounding trees. The blue paint on the door was faded, cracked and peeling; Dean approached, pressing the buzzer, hearing the noise echoing in the hallways beyond.

It took a few minutes, but the door cracked open a little on the security chain, and a wary voice from inside called out.

“Yes? Can I help you?”

“Mrs Mayweather?” Sam replied, in a light, cheerful tone, “my name is Sam Elliott, I’m an FBI Agent. My partner and I are in town investigating a case, and we’ve been told you rent out rooms – we need a place to stay for a couple of nights, if you have vacancies?”

The door closed briefly; there was the clatter of a chain against the latch, then it opened fully, and Dean had to wipe a look of surprise off his face.

“Are you Mrs Mayweather?”

“Yes… I’m sorry, did you say you’re FBI…?”

Sam and Dean automatically produced their credentials, and the woman peered at them in open curiosity. She was tall, around five-foot-eleven, with long hair that hung almost to her waist, held back in a thick braid. She was slim and tanned, and it seemed she spent a lot of time outside. There was dirt on the knees of her faded jeans, and she wore a simple black button-down shirt under a shabby grey cardigan – the only part Dean had guessed correctly.

“We are,” Sam was saying as Dean finished his assessment of the guest house hostess, “we’re in town on a case and we need a place to stay.”

“It’s cash only, up front.”

“That’s fine,” Dean confirmed, while silently cursing having to part with hard-won funds; he much preferred using fake credit cards for this kind of thing, “we only need a couple of nights.”

“Twin room or adjoining?”

“Uh, twin’s fine,” Dean replied, mentally calculating how much of his precious little cash he had to spare.

“Come in,” she stepped aside, and they obligingly entered.

They found themselves in a narrow hallway; there were doors to the left and right, and ahead of them a flight of stairs, to the right of which was a small desk with a cash register and a ledger. Behind the desk was a pegboard with several sets of keys hanging from it.

Mrs Mayweather squeezed through the narrow gap between the bannister and the desk and opened the ledger; a puff of dust rose from its cover as she did so.

“Been a while since I had any guests,” she commented, picking up a pen and scrawling it idly on the page to get the ink flowing again, “names?”

“Dean Savage and Sam Elliott,” Dean supplied, readily.

She carefully jotted these down in the book, and then selected a key from the board behind her.

“For two nights, it’ll be a hundred bucks.”

Dean winced, but counted out the bills and handed them over, receiving a couple of mortice lock keys on a simple fob in return.

“First floor, room one,” she told them, “no food or pets allowed in the room. If you need extra towels or anything, leave a note on this desk and I’ll bring them up when I can. I’ll leave the front door off the security chain and the bigger key is so you can come and go as you need. There’s an en-suite bathroom and the door to your left there is the guest lounge; there’s a coffee machine in there and you’re welcome to light the fire if it’s cold. If you’d booked ahead I’d have done breakfasts, but I’ve just deducted that from the normal cost and you can get something from the town, okay?”

“Sure, sounds good,” Dean agreed.

“You wouldn’t happen to have WiFi or an internet connection we can use?” Sam asked, hopefully.

“No. There are some books, a radio and a TV in the lounge though if you want entertainment, and there’s a landline for guests to use if you need to make a call – cell service around here is non-existent, most folks in town don’t even bother owning one.”

“Uh, yeah, thanks,” Dean exchanged a dubious look with Sam, “and, uh… if you can spare us a few minutes, we’d also like to talk to you about the case we’re investigating.”

“I doubt I can be of any help,” Mrs Mayweather replied, a little stiffly, “I keep myself to myself and I spend most of my days out of the house working up at my orchard.”

“I see… and I assume there must be a Mr Mayweather?”

“There was. He died. Three years ago. He left enough money to get by and I inherited this house from my mother. I let rooms out around the holidays for families visiting the folks in town who don’t have the space or the willingness to put them up, and I grow apples in my orchard to make pies and cider to sell, and that’s it. That’s my life.”

“So you haven’t had any strangers passing through recently…?”

“Just you two.”

“We’re investigating some missing girls…”

“Sorry. I haven’t seen anything, and I don’t know anything. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get to work. I’m sure you can manage your bags and find your room without my assistance.”

She slipped back out from behind the desk, pushed between them, and disappeared through the door to their right; there was the distinctive click of a lock snapping shut.

“Friendly folk around here, aren’t they?” Dean remarked, dryly, “Alright, let’s go grab our bags and check out the room.”

They turned to head back out the front door, but then something caught Sam’s eye and he froze. Sensing his brother’s moment of shock, Dean half-turned, giving him a quizzical look. Sam pointed silently and Dean followed his gaze. Above the front door, almost lost in the patterned wallpaper, there was a small sigil painted red above the front door lintel. Dean gave Sam a slight nod, and they casually headed out to the car, well aware that they might be under scrutiny from prying eyes.

“What was that?” Dean asked, conversationally, as they reached the car and opened the trunk, picking up their bags, deliberately casual as he idly glanced around; sure enough, the curtain of Mrs Mayweather’s private room was twitching a little, dropped back into place by an unseen hand.

“A warding sigil to detect magic,” Sam replied, grimly, “witchcraft – if we take anything magical into the house, the sigil will activate by glowing and it’ll blow our cover.”

“Does that include our witch-killing bullets?”

“Afraid so.”

“Not sure I wanna go back in there without them… still, we don’t have a lotta choice. Alright. Drop anything magical and act casual.”

“If she is a witch, should we even be staying here?”

“If she’s a witch, then she’s our best lead on those missing girls,” Dean countered, “we go in, we check the room for hex bags, and then when she’s out, we search that entire house if we have to.”

“Yeah. Alright.”

Carting their holdalls inside, they climbed the stairs to their room. Dean opened the door and entered first, every sense on high alert. The room was simple; a narrow, empty bench ran the length of the room to the left of the door, there were two queen-sized beds with tiny nightstands that held a basic lamp each, and between them was a door that stood open, revealing a bathroom beyond. There was no other furniture or decor to speak of. Opposite the doorway they stood in was a window with heavy, dark blue drapes and net curtains that overlooked a small garden and the woodlands beyond, the trees obscuring most of the light and lending the room a dark, dingy atmosphere.

Dean flicked on the light and cast a wary eye around. Sam followed him in and they set about a brief but methodical search, stripping the beds down, tossing the mattresses, even lifting the frames to check beneath them, pummelling and turning out the pillows, running their hands along the underside of the bench, checking under the lamps, lifting and moving the nightstands, checking the linen cupboard in the bathroom, even lifting the lid of the toilet cistern, and finding nothing.

“Looks clean,” Dean concluded, at last, as they re-made the beds and set the room straight again, “we could do with knowing a bit more about the mysterious Mrs Mayweather… and her dead husband.”

“Didn’t someone mention we could get an internet connection at the library?” Sam suggested, “There’ll also be all the local records and newspapers, best place to start looking…”

“Of course it is,” Dean groaned, “books! I love books. Any idea where it might be?”

“Well, the whole town centre is only, like, six blocks, so…”

“Yeah, alright. Maybe we can find some decent coffee along the way…”

They located the library between the church and town hall, opposite a tiny school building and a playground that was empty, the children no doubt all sequestered away in their lessons for the day. Parking up outside, they stepped inside the library, and Dean sighed at the musty smell of old books and leather polish. There was a checking desk right in front of them; behind this was a large, antique leather wingback armchair. The occupant was a tall, thin man dressed in a shirt and waistcoat. He was reading; a thick tome resting in his lap, long legs crossed over, a mug of something hot and steaming held in one hand as the other languidly turned a page. He had a pair of round spectacles perched on the bridge of his narrow, pointed nose, and he turned to peer over the top of them in curiosity as the two suited men entered the library.

“Goodness… hello there. May I be of some assistance?”

“I’m Agent Elliott, this is Agent Savage, FBI,” Sam introduced them, flashing their badges habitually, “we’re in town investigating the disappearances of several young girls.”

“How awful,” tutted the thin man, “I wasn’t aware of anything like that happening around here. Alderwick is a very quiet, peaceful place.”

“The cases took place in neighbouring towns, we’re just investigating possible places where the kidnapper and the victims might have either passed through or found somewhere to hide,” Sam replied, easily, “we’re not here to cast aspersions; just ruling out possibilities.”

“And how can I possibly be of assistance to the FBI in a case I know nothing about, hmm?”

“We’d just like to check local records,” Sam lied, glibly, “we’re looking for any historical records or area maps that might assist us – our own map is… somewhat lacking in terms of detail… and I’ve been told you have an internet connection we can use so that I can check in with our superiors, Mr…?”

“Hodges. Desmond Hodges. You may call me Des if you wish, everybody else around here does, and I have grown tired of correcting them. Yes, of course; we have three computers with an internet connection and a complete selection of local historical records, although I can say as something of a local expert, we have never had any case involving missing children… and our last murder was in nineteen-seventy-four, when one of the local farmers killed his wife for sleeping with his neighbour. People still talk about the case today, that’s how little crime occurs around here.”

“That’s very helpful, thank you.”

“My pleasure,” Des rose stiffly to his feet, sweeping one hand over his immaculately groomed, grey hair as he set down his book and brew, “you will find the computers in the back corner over there, the password is ‘library’, all lowercase, followed by a hyphen and then the number one. I will check my personal records for anything that may be of assistance.”

“Thanks,” Dean watched as the bespectacled librarian wandered away into a side room, “Sam, is it just me, or is everyone in this town just plain weird?”

“Well, at least he was nice about it,” Sam shrugged, “come on, let’s get started. You wanna hit the newspapers while I do some online searches?”

“Sounds awesome,” Dean said, flatly.

They set to work; Dean locating the folios of local newspapers while Sam settled down at a computer. It took the younger Winchester several minutes to boot up the ancient computer and connect to the internet, the machine running frustratingly slow.

“Might be quicker if we drove out to the next town over,” he remarked, grimly, watching the loading screen as the outdated processor whirred and the fans wheezed noisily, “this page might have loaded by the time we get back.”

“That’s probably still more interesting than the local rag,” Dean sighed, “seriously, the biggest thing that happens in this town is the annual pie and cider festival, which, to be fair, actually sounds awesome…”

“I’m afraid you missed it,” chimed in another voice, “it was three weeks ago.”

“Just my luck,” Dean raised his head as Des, the librarian appeared, carrying two steaming cups which immediately caught Dean’s interest.

“I thought you Agents might like some coffee… it’s black with no sugar, but I can add sweetener and creamer if you prefer?”

“No, that’s perfect, thanks,” Dean replied, holding out his hands and accepting the mug with enthusiasm, “oh, man, I need this. Thanks.”

“My pleasure, Agent. Just… please be careful not to spill it, I do not usually allow food or drink in any part of the library.”

“How long have you lived in Alderwick?” Sam asked, curiously.

“Oh, my whole life. I was born in the apartment upstairs, I inherited the building when my father passed, and I’ve been the librarian and archivist here for, oh, more than forty years now, and when I die, I’ll be buried next to my parents in the churchyard down by the lake.”

“You’ve never though about leaving?”

“Now why on earth would I want to do that? I have my books, my neighbours, and my research papers. I am a leading expert on apple varieties, cultivation, harvesting, and traditional ciders. I select some of the best apples grown locally every year to brew my own ciders in the basement and I have won best cider seven times in the past twelve years at the local festival. I would offer you some, but I’m sure you gentlemen are not permitted to drink whilst on duty, so my hospitality can sadly only extend as far as a humble cup of coffee.”

“It’s perfect, thanks,” Dean raised the cup and took an obliging sip, then hummed in approval, “it’s good.”

“Wonderful,” Des replied, airily, “now, is there anything I can assist you with?”

“Uh, there is something I’m curious about,” Dean nodded, “we’re staying at Mrs Mayweather’s guest house, and, uh, you mentioned you were the local historian… something of an expert in the townsfolk, I’d guess…?”

“Ah, yes, the enigmatic Mrs Mayweather,” Des lowered himself into the chair opposite to the one Dean was sitting in, the desk piled high with books and folios, as the elderly librarian rested his long, bony hands on the tabletop, “our resident witch.”

“I’m sorry… did you say… witch?”

“If you believe local superstition and nonsense,” Des gave a dry, humourless chuckle, “Mrs Mayweather comes from a long line of reputed witches.”

“You don’t say…”

“Oh, come now, Agent; don’t tell me an FBI Agent is interested in small town gossip and local folklore?”

“Indulge me,” Dean smiled, leaning forward a little, “I love a good spooky story.”

“Well, there’s very little to it, I’m afraid,” Des shook his head with a slight smile, “Mrs Mayweather has a fascinating family history. One of her distant ancestors was the legendary Hester Elmwood; she reputedly made a deal with the devil in exchange for magical powers. When she died, the magic supposedly passed to her daughter, Tabitha, and so on through the female lineage, down to our present Lenora Mayweather.”

“So I suppose she flies around the town on a broomstick every full moon and owns a black cat?” Dean joked, even as he saw Sam shift in his seat, now paying more attention to the librarian than the stuttering computer at his desk.

“Hah, no, no, of course not,” Des waved a hand dismissively, “the local children often dare each other to ring her front bell and run away, believing that she will put a curse on them, that sort of thing, but no. She’s a quiet woman who minds her business, and although the cider she brews is… mediocre at best… it sells well enough at the local market, I suppose.”

“Anything… strange… ever happen regarding Mrs Mayweather or the guest house? Strange lights, disappearances, anything like that?”

“What an odd question… No, not that I am aware of, and nor do I believe in any of that witchcraft nonsense,” Des replied, a little haughtily, “there is no such thing as a witch, just poor unfortunate women put to death by tyrannical religious despots with grandiose ideologies and an insatiable desire for power. No, the worst thing that had ever happened to Mrs Mayweather was the unfortunate death of her husband.”

“What happened to him?”

“He fell into the lake and drowned, oh, some three or four years ago now, I think it was. There was a big to-do about the whole affair.”

“Why?”

“Everybody said he must have been drunk and fell in whilst out fishing, but… Edward Mayweather rarely, if ever, drank… and the accident happened on a Sunday morning, when he’d normally have been in church.”

“So… Lenora Mayweather went to church without her husband that morning?”

“Oh, no, Lenora never attends the church – something she and I have in common, which puts us both at odds with the majority of the God-fearing folk in this town. It’s one of the reasons they call her a witch, I suppose. Goodness knows what they say about me.”

“Any reason to suspect foul play in Mr Mayweather’s death?”

“Heavens, no. I can’t imagine anyone wanting the poor man dead and his boat was found drifting not far from where his body was found. It was just a tragic accident. They’d only been married for a couple of months, the poor woman. What could any of this possibly have to do with your missing girls?”

“Oh, nothing, I’m just curious,” Dean answered, lightly, “kinda goes with the badge.”

“Of course. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“We’ll let you know,” Dean smiled, politely, “thanks.”

“Very well. You can find me at the front desk if you need anything.”

Des pushed himself to his feet and wandered away, heading back towards the front of the library as Dean turned in his chair, giving his brother a satisfied smirk as Sam spun his chair around, rolling a little closer to Dean.

“So; Lenora Mayweather’s ancestor, Hester Elmwood, was a borrower witch who made a demon deal, and her however-many-greats-great-granddaughter has inherited the power,” Dean summarised, holding up one hand with his thumb and finger almost touching, “we are this close to solving this case, Sam, thanks to one know-it-all librarian and some good old-fashioned gossiping.”

“It doesn’t make any sense,” Sam frowned slightly, “borrower witches don’t pass on their powers through bloodlines – when they die, the power reverts to the demon they made the deal with.”

“So? What does it matter? Maybe this deal was generational. We find the witch, we threaten her into giving the kids back, and then we gank the bitch anyway. That’s all that matters. You can fuss over the why’s and how’s when we get back to the Bunker… where we have lots of books of our own and computers that, you know, actually work.”

The ancient machine behind Sam made a buzzing noise, then a low tone sounded. Sam turned back, only to find himself staring at blue screen with scrolling, flickering white text, and he groaned aloud at the useless, crashing machine.

“Yeah, maybe you’re right,” he sighed.

They finished off their coffees, packing away their things and returning the empty mugs to the front desk; they were about to leave, when Sam suddenly stopped, a thoughtful look on his face, as he turned back to the desk. Des raised his gaze questioningly, peering over the top of his spectacles.

“Yes, young man?”

“Yeah, uh, odd question…” Sam gave an uncertain smile, “I’m, uh… I’m a bit of a stargazer; couldn’t help but notice the skies around here seem really clear at night. You, uh… you wouldn’t happen to know if there are any, um… interesting astrological phenomena due around this time of year, by any chance?”

“You know; it’s funny you should ask,” Desmond closed his book momentarily, keeping one finger marking the page he was on as he removed his glasses for a moment to meet Sam’s earnest gaze with one of his own, “I’m something of an astronomer myself, I have a telescope in the loft. Your timing is impeccable! Tonight, for the first time in over a decade, there will be a blood moon at the full moon – a complete lunar eclipse, and the forecast is for clear skies tonight so you’ll have an excellent view even with the naked eye. It should be happening around three in the morning, if you don’t mind staying up… or a very early start. How marvellous for you!”

“Uh, yeah, that’s amazing, thanks,” Sam gently rapped his knuckles on the desk, raising a ghost of a smile, “thank you so much, I’ll, uh… I’ll definitely have to check it out. Thanks again.”

He turned away and followed Dean out of the library into the midday sun, though the air still held a distinctive autumnal chill.

“Wanna tell me what that was all about?” Dean asked, as they reached the car, leaning on the roof as he met his brother’s worried gaze.

“Just a hunch,” Sam replied, guardedly, “something I’d be able to follow up on if I had a decent internet connection or cell service…”

“Something you wanna share with the rest of the class?”

“I dunno,” Sam shrugged, looking distinctly uncomfortable, “just… that weird feeling. Dean… a blood moon happens somewhere every two to three years, but a full moon lunar eclipse, that’s a significant thing in witchcraft, and at three o’clock in the morning… the witching hour. Some of the most powerful spell work can be performed on a night like tonight, impossible under any other circumstances, and with five innocent girls in the mix…”

“Our skeevy witch is up to something especially nasty,” Dean nodded in agreement, “alright. Let’s search the house first, and then see if we can find this orchard she mentioned, there might be a barn or something out there; good place to hide five kids without the nosey neighbours seein’ anything.”

“Yeah,” Sam nodded, “we’ve got a few hours before it gets dark, at least…”

They wasted no further time in returning to the guest house; Dean loudly rapped on the door to the private rooms of their hostess, hollering through the door.

“Mrs Mayweather? Hey, Mrs Mayweather, we need some clean towels out here!”

There was no response, so Dean swiftly picked the lock, opened the door, and winced as he surveyed the room.

“Definitely a witch,” Sam murmured.

“No shit,” Dean replied, dryly.

The room screamed everything occult. The walls were lined with shelves of books that would have made the Men of Letters archivists weep with envy. There were bottles and jars carefully aligned with handwritten labels; herbs and leaves hung to dry from hooks along one wall, the window heavily netted and draped against prying eyes from outside. The walls, floor and ceiling were decorated with warding signs and sigils, including a devil’s trap right at the door.

“Be careful,” Sam whispered, “and don’t touch anything. There will be protection spells in place…”

They searched thoroughly but found nothing, no trapdoors or hidden spaces.

“There’s a book missing,” Sam noted, perusing the shelves with no small amount of interest, “something thick, judging from the gap, and it was moved recently looking at the marks in the dust… I’m guessing some kind of spell book or grimoire, judging by the other books in this section.”

“Then she might already be preparing for whatever the hell she’s up to,” Dean growled, “you see anything else obvious missing?”

“Uh… some of these jars have been moved, but I wouldn’t know if anything’s been taken,” Sam shrugged, helplessly, “this whole room feels… wrong. Can you feel it?”

“Plenty of bad juju, sure,” Dean glanced around, “your Sam-witch-senses tingling or something?”

“Huh, maybe,” Sam glanced around, “I don’t think there’s anything in here that we wanna be messing around with. Let’s check out the rest of the house.”

They left the witch’s room with no small amount of relief as Dean carefully locked it behind them. A search of the rest of the house revealed nothing of interest, though it took them several hours to pick every lock, checking every room.

They explored the attic, finding nothing but boxes of more books, old clothes, antiques, spiderwebs, and dust. There was a cellar beneath the kitchen, but this turned out to contain little more than a large apple press and fermenting buckets filled with cloudy cider and several cases of glass bottles with handmade labels. Through the kitchen was the access to the garage, which was empty, but oil stains on the floor told them a car was indeed normally kept within.

“The orchard,” Dean said, folding his arms as they stared at the empty garage, “she’s gotta be there, and I bet those missing girls are as well.”

“You know, the apple tree is pretty sacred to some witches of the Celtic tradition,” Sam commented, as they turned back into the house, passing through the kitchen, guest lounge, and back out through the front door; “it symbolises divine wisdom, eternal life, and the underworld… did you know if you cut an apple in half horizontally, there’s a natural pentagram in the core and seed pattern?”

Night was already falling as they stepped outside and Sam glanced warily at the darkening sky with no small amount of trepidation as to what the night might hold.

“No, but it doesn't surprise me that you know that,” Dean was saying, wearily, jogging down the steps and heading towards his car, “I’m more worried about her cutting up those girls than some goddamn apples.”

“Dean, listen – orchards are primary gathering places for divination and spell crafting,” Sam said, urgently, “they’re liminal places, where the veil between realms is notoriously thin… and this isn’t some ordinary witch making hex bags or casting curses on people who’ve pissed her off in some way. This is a hereditary borrower witch with centuries of ancestral knowledge behind her, five innocent girls ready for use, and at an extremely rare blood moon event during the witching hour – this is dangerous practitioner coming up to the height of her potential power. At this time of year, after the harvest season, a dormant orchard connects to darker, hidden realms. I’m starting to think she’s trying to summon someone… or something.”

“Like what?” Dean asked, “Like… Lucifer?”

Sam swallowed; a flash of fear crossed his face, and for good reason, quickly hidden – but Dean had both seen it, and shared it.

“God, let’s hope not,” Sam gave a nervous half-laugh, “come on. There are loads of orchards around here, but I picked up a few hairs from Mrs Mayweather’s hairbrush, I can do a simple tracking spell and they’ll lead us to her.”

“Awesome, what are we waiting for? Let’s go gank that bitch and save those girls.”

Retrieving their gear from the room they had not even had the chance to sleep in, they packed everything into the truck, jumped into their seats, and slammed the doors closed in perfect unison.

The spell Sam muttered to the few strands of hair he held up between his fingers made them twist and sway, as if stirred by an invisible current, until they pulled straight, pointing like the needle of a compass. Dean hauled the car off the drive and followed the direction, glancing over occasionally even as Sam murmured the occasional direction or pointed out where to go.

The headlights cut through the thick darkness of the night as Sam steadfastly held the long strands of hair aloft, occasionally repeating the Latin words of the spell softly every time they dipped or sagged in his grip.

“Fragmentum totius, monstra mihi viam ad eum qui te possidet…”

The going was painfully slow; rough and uneven dirt roads hindered their progress, slowing the powerful car down to little more than a crawl in many places, with dirt tracks that led nowhere and multiple wrong turns or dead ends making them double back or turn around, increasing Dean’s frustration with every passing second, but he resisted the urge to snap at Sam, knowing his brother was as desperate to find the missing girls and their occult captor as he was.

“Fragmentum totius, monstra mihi viam ad eum qui te possidet…”

Dean kept one eye on the road and one eye on his brother; Sam had become exceedingly adept at spell work over the last few years, and although he often joked about it, Dean was secretly quite impressed. It was not lost on him that years ago, he and his father would have hunted down and killed anyone doing the kinds of things Sam was capable of doing now, but he had learned that not all witches were evil and not all spells were bad… and if this one allowed them to recover the five missing girls safely, then he was all for it.

“Fragmentum totius, monstra mihi viam ad eum qui te possidet… ah, damn it.”

“Sam?”

“The spell’s stopped working,” Sam held the few strands of hair limp between his fingers, “she must be close; and she must be warded in some way… her power is building and she’s overwhelmed the tracking spell. We might have to search on foot…”

“Dude… there’re hundreds of acres of apple trees out there, we could walk all night and not find anything,” Dean snapped back, his mounting worry for the missing girls showing in his terse tone, “got any better ideas?”

“Uhh…” Sam screwed his face up in concentration, “ah, crap… I might… there is one thing I can try. I’m gonna need some stuff from the trunk.”

Dean hauled the car to the side of the dirt road, switched off the ignition, and grabbed a torch from the glovebox as he clambered out.

“Lemme guess – another spell?”

“You got any better ideas?” Sam shot back, as he hauled open the trunk, “Have we got any owl bones in here?”

“Owl bones…? Why the hell would we have…? Oh,” Dean trailed off as Sam pulled out an old leather bag that contained several boxes and clinking jars, “right. Your spell kit.”

Dean obligingly shone the torch over the contents as Sam pulled out a few items, then closed the trunk.

“This might not work,” Sam laid a small piece of black, velvet cloth on Baby’s trunk, speaking as he worked, “a little something that Rowena showed me once, but, uh… it doesn’t always work for men. I’m just hoping that tonight the magic’s strong enough to work for me.”

“Well, let’s hope you’re woman enough to pull it off,” Dean snorted, “that hairstyle alone should be enough to fool anyone.”

Sam gave him a sour look, but said nothing, as he constructed his makeshift alter, piling up the owl bones on the cloth along with a few other ingredients and arranging five tea-light candles around it. Dean obligingly handed over his lighter, allowing Sam to spark the candles to life, and then he held up the strands of hair he still had clutched in one hand.

“Usually, you’d use an item of clothing, but… this is more personal, hopefully it’ll make the connection stronger.”

“What…?”

“Things might get a bit weird, but that’s normal. Don’t freak out, okay?”

“Sam, what the hell…?”

Sam placed the hairs carefully on the pile of bones, and then took a pinch of powder from an open jar he had placed to one side. He stared deeply at the alter for a long moment, concentrating, then raised his right hand high.

“Wings of Titania, bear mine eyes aloft, as I bid thee!”

He threw the powder onto the pile atop the cloth; there was a bright flare of light, and Dean leapt back in shock.

“Whoa! Hey! Mind Baby’s paintwork! What the hell, Sam?! Uh… Sam…?”

Dean shone the torch towards his brother; Sam was standing utterly rigid, every muscle taut with strain, his hands braced on the trunk as if holding himself up, head tilted back and staring at the sky… and his eyes had clouded over completely white.

“Oh, yeah, because this kind of weird is totally normal and nothing to freak out about,” Dean growled, “aw, c’mon!”

Staring in disbelief at his brother, Dean forced himself to wait, hoping that Sam knew what he was doing… and several long minutes later, Sam abruptly jerked, drawing in a ragged gasp of air as he suddenly went limp, sagging against the car as he panted for breath. Dean lunged instinctively, grabbing his brother, concern written all over his scowling features.

“Sam? Hey, Sam? You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” Sam groaned, pawing a hand over his eyes, which had, thankfully, returned to normal, “God, that sucked.”

“What the hell was that?”

“A kind of astral projection,” Sam replied, still leaning heavily against the car, “but it takes you straight to a specific person. I saw her, I saw the whole thing, but I think she sensed me; she cast me back. She knows we’re coming.”

“So we lost the element of surprise,” Dean sighed, “no big deal, was planning on an all-guns-blazing kind of approach anyway. You can take us there?”

“Yeah, I saw the way to go,” Sam was already straightening up, clearing away the remains of his makeshift alter and opening the trunk to grab their weapons, “there’s a barn, it’s actually not too far away, that way…”

Dean loaded his gun with their witch-killing bullets, picking up the demon knife and a few other weapons for good measure.

“Did you see the missing girls?”

“Yeah. They’re alive. Scared out of their minds, but alive, and they looked unharmed.”

“For now,” Dean scowled at his watch, “it’s already nearly two in the morning, we must’ve been driving around for hours… we don’t have much time.”

Sam raised his eyes to the sky; the full moon hung overhead, bright and yet somehow foreboding, and a chill ran down his spine.

“Then let’s get moving.”

Dean let Sam take the lead, and he went straight off the dirt road and into the ominous darkness of the surrounding orchard. The ancient trees twisted and curled around them but neither of the Winchesters was easily intimidated. Their torches swept through the darkness as they moved with quick, determined purpose. Sam led them unerringly, pausing only occasionally to check his bearings, but then drawn on by the lingering effects of whatever spell he had used to spy on their witch’s location, but it was Dean that saw it first.

“Sam. Look… over there,” Dean dropped his torch down low and pointed.

Sure enough, ahead of them sat a squat barn, a dark shadow looming against the starlit sky in a large clearing… with the silhouette of a car parked outside, and Dean swore softly.

“Are you friggin’ kidding me? We could’a driven up here?”

“I didn’t see the car or the road, just the witch,” Sam replied, apologetically, “and the inside of the barn… besides, driving up, we’d have still lost the element of surprise.”

“Yeah, but at least I wouldn’t have had to friggin’ walk all the way up here,” Dean groused, “alright, come on… let’s get closer.”

They crept forwards; from within the barn came a warm, bright light, leaking through the gaps in the timbers and the open front. The brothers stowed away their torches and drew their guns, slinking closer with practiced stealth. From within came the sound of muffled sobs; the missing girls, no doubt terrified out of their minds but threatened into quiet compliance by their captor. Whimpering and sniffling, but too scared to cry out properly, no doubt restrained in preparation for the witch’s ritual.

Dean gestured for Sam to go around the building as he stayed by the front door, checking the perimeter quickly before making an approach. Dean kept an eye on the door, trying to peer in. Through a gap in the timbers, he could just about make out the five missing girls, tied to chairs and gagged, still dressed in their now dirty and ragged pyjamas, faces tear-stained, expressions terrified. They were arranged around a circle, at the points of a pentagram, sigils and spells painted on the floor.

In the centre stood Lenora Mayweather, holding a large, dark green crystal in both hands. She had her back to the open doorway, but then slowly turned on the spot, and smiled.

“I know you’re out there,” she called out, with a throaty laugh, her now loose, long hair stirring and wafting in the shifting air as currents of occult power whorled lazily around her, “come on in, Hunters. Come and bear witness…”

“Ah, crap…” Dean breathed. “She made us. Any other ways in?”

“No… just the front door.”

“Direct approach it is then. We gotta do this fast, Sam. Don’t give the evil skank a chance to utter a word.”

“Dean, there are kids in there…”

“They’re tied up in chairs. Aim high, don’t miss. You ready?” 

“No, Dean, wait, we should…”

Sam’s protest died on his lips as Dean clicked the safety off his gun and, without a moment of hesitation, barged the door open, snapping the weapon up. Sam moved without missing a beat, following Dean into the barn; however, Lenora Mayweather was more than prepared.

Two shots sounded; two bullets tore from barrels faster than the eye could see… only to slow, rippling as if passing through viscous liquid, coming to a stop, and dropping harmlessly to the floor.

“You didn’t really think that would work, did you?”

“Heh… it was worth a try,” Dean shrugged, with a weak grin.

“Permitte telum!”

Dean swore and Sam gasped as the guns were snatched telekinetically from their hands, hurtling past the the witch and hitting the floor towards the back of the barn.

“Manere ubi es!”

“Uh, Sam… Sam, I can’t move!”

“Me neither,” Sam grunted, as locked in place as his brother, “alright, Lenora… you’ve made your point. What’s all this about? What do you want with these girls?”

“Oh, right, this is the point where I reveal my dastardly plan in a lengthy, gloating monologue, giving you time to figure out how to overcome my spells and miraculously break free,” she replied, dryly, “I don’t think so, Hunter. You may have a few tricks up your sleeve – and under other circumstances I might even have been impressed by that little astral projection trick you pulled off – but I am a daughter of witches, and tonight, I shall not work alone.”

“What the hell…?”

Lenora’s irises lit up with a bright, piercing green glow, as she held the crystal aloft, and pointed it towards one of the terrified, bound girls.

“Hester Elmwood… Te voco et te ligo ut mihi servias!”

A crackle of bright green energy, the same glowing colour as Lenora’s eyes, shot out from the crystal like a bolt of lightning, spearing into the young girl; but she did not cry out. Her long blonde hair fanned away from her face as her squirming and sobbing ceased, and her eyes glowed green, raising her head slowly.

“Daughter, I am here, and I greet thee,” the girl said, in an echoing, deep voice that was clearly not her own.

“Sam! I still can’t move! What the hell is she doing?”

“Tabitha Widowson… Te voco et te ligo ut mihi servias!”

The next girl, a slightly older brunette, snapped her head up, drawing in a sharp breath, eyes glowing ominously over her tear-streaked cheeks.

“Daughter, I am here, and I serve thy will.”

“I think she’s summoning the spirits of her ancestors – the witches who held the power before she inherited it! She’s using the girls as vessels to contain them and binding them to serve her!”

“Ophelia Wraithwood… Te voco et te ligo ut mihi servias!”

The third girl had been keening and pulling at the ropes around her wrists until the skin was red raw, but her struggles ceased, and she stilled, lifting her chin and meeting Lenora’s glowing gaze with one of her own.

“Daughter, I am here, and my power is with thee.”

“Sam! Sam, we gotta do somethin’…!”

“Trust me, Dean, I’m trying!”

“Thalia Mosswick… Te voco et te ligo ut mihi servias!”

The fourth teen let out a soft laugh as she threw her head up, eyes alight and a grin plastered across her dirt-smeared features.

“Daughter of my daughter! I am here, and I bend to thy will!”

“Hazel Ashmore… Te voco et te ligo ut mihi servias!”

“Daughter of mine,” the final girl was the youngest of the five, her ginger hair stirring in the breeze of power as the green lightning forked into her chest, igniting the glow in her eyes, “I am here, and the circle is complete. Speak thy words, as I taught thee.”

The crystal Lenora held had faded to darkness, little more than scorched, clear quartz, the power held within now contained in the five captive girls bound to their chairs at the points of the pentagram and sigils painted on the ground. Lenora cast it carelessly to one side, ignoring Sam and Dean who were still struggling against the effects of the binding spell.

Lenora began to chant, holding her arms aloft, palms facing downwards, swaying slowly on the spot.

Around the bound girls with their eerily glowing eyes and the painted sigils was a circle of candles, alternating in black and red; the flames danced and flickered as Lenora spoke the words of her spell, eyes glowing fiercely bright, as the five possessed girls moved their lips in perfect unison, the chant becoming thunderously deep in its incantation as the two Hunters strained helplessly against muscles locked in place.

“Per lunam et stellam et clamorem corvi… Per radicem et sanguinem et osse… Vim e terra voco… Eam tamquam meam vindico…”

Sam was just about able to crane his neck up, and Dean followed his gaze; through the gaps between the timbers in the roof of the old barn, the moon was clearly visible, full and bright… and beginning to turn distinctly orange.

“Terra ignis aqua ventus… Elementa oboediunt… Quod volo fiet… Ante lucem oritur!”

“Sam! We gotta do something here, man!”

Sam gritted his teeth and hauled with all his might against the invisible bonds, but nothing seemed to give; the witch was too powerful… and then a memory rose in his mind. An Enochian spell meant to break chains, and he gasped as he fought to remember the words.

“Ee roh, mah day say tah! ... Kah toh, mah day, tay roh! ... Sah boh, tay lah!”

Both Dean and Sam yelped aloud as their magical bonds were severed, and both of them went sprawling on the floor, thrown off balance by their own attempts to break free.

Lenora paid them no heed.

“Audi me, daemon, audi me, Razaezel, te evoco. Frango vincula tua et perrumpo caveam tuam, libero te ex inferno et evoco te ut verbum tuum serves. Da mihi omnem potestatem quam anteavo meo promisisti, exi et da mihi robur tuum, magne Razaezel!”

Dean was already pushing himself to his feet, but Sam was faster; he reached into his suit jacket and withdrew a wickedly sharp hunting knife; he recklessly lunged forwards.

The bound girls screamed in unison; “No!”

Lenora whipped around on the spot, her glowing green eyes meeting Sam’s, determination written onto his features, as he plunged the knife into her stomach. She screeched, as the light in the captive girls’ eyes flickered a few times, and then faded… to be replaced by their terrified screams and sobs of horror as they desperately fought their bonds. Sam used all his strength to push the witch back, hauling her with him, well aware that a simple knife was not going to do much to such a powerful practitioner of magic, and knowing that she might well have a resurrection spell or two concealed within her body.

However, Lenora flung up one hand, and Sam was lifted clean off his feet and thrown roughly to one side. Dean launched himself recklessly forwards, fully intending to simply tackle the witch to the ground in an effort to restrain her… only for her to gesture again, and he was thrown backwards. He hit the floor and went sliding, the impact with the concrete knocking the air from his lungs and made his vision blur.

“Dean!”

Sam’s shout was filled with concern, followed seconds later by a yelp and a thud, as his brother was no doubt on the receiving end of the same treatment once more. Dean staggered to his feet.

“Sam?”

“Ugh… I’m alright!”

Sam was pushing himself up; there was a hitch in his breath that belied his words, but Dean could not see his brother to check on him, he was too busy watching the movements of the powerful witch who stood between them.

“You are too late, Hunters! You may have broken the binding and sent my mothers back to the veil, but he is free, and he will come for me!”

Lenora’s gaze was fixed on Dean as he was rising to his feet, gasping for breath, bruised and winded but not ready to surrender, rallying himself for another round… until she extended her hand and curled it into a fist.

“Cor tibi impero, desine!”

Dean’s heart seemed to clench in his chest; pain shot through his sternum and down his left arm, as he gasped and clutched at his ribcage, suddenly unable to draw breath; he gaped and gasped, he could not so much as cry out to give voice to the agony or call to his brother for help. His lungs felt frozen, heart burning… and no longer beating. Black sparkles began to cloud his vision, and a strange, tingling numbness spread through his limbs, stilling his struggles and dragging him inexorably towards the darkness…

“Get the hell away from my brother, you bitch!”

Lenora gasped and swung around, inadvertently releasing her hold on Dean, letting him collapse to the floor as he dragged in several desperate, ragged, wheezing breaths, still clutching his chest and rolling weakly on the ground.

Sam stood there, just over an arm's length away, gun in hand and arm extended, the barrel pressing into the centre of Lenora’s chest. His face was pale and there was blood on the collar of his white shirt, but his gaze was fixed in one of deadly determination. Lenora’s eyes flared bright green, a sneer twisting her lips.

“Your weapons won’t work on me, Hunter; you may know a few interesting tricks but I am a daughter of witches and the power of a demon flows through my veins… what can you possibly hope to do to me? What spell can you weave? What weapon, what words, could possibly harm something such as I?”

“Three magic words,” Sam snarled, “Witch. Killing. Bullets.”

He pulled the trigger.

The gunshot was explosively loud.

The captive girls shrieked in fear and horror.

Lenora’s face twisted from fury to shock to fear in the space of a second. She convulsed once, twice, her eyes flickering, the light fading… and she breathed her last breath.

As she did so, a small puff of green smoke passed through her lips… and as Sam inhaled, it slipped into his mouth, though he did not notice it at all, his gaze fixed over Lenora’s shoulder at his brother, still lying gasping on the ground. Lenora swayed, and finally fell, collapsing bonelessly to the floor. Sam simply stepped over her body and fell to his knees at his brother’s side, carelessly dropping his gun as he grabbed Dean’s shoulders.

“Dean!”

His older brother let out a cough, groaning, pressing one hand to his chest.

“Dean, are you okay?” Sam was breathless with worry, one hand gripping Dean’s shirt, the other clamped firmly to his shoulder.

Dean coughed again, rolling onto his side.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m good,” he rasped, pulling away from Sam’s grip and pushing himself up onto one elbow, peering over his shoulder at the dead witch nearby, “did you get her?”

“Yeah, yeah, I got her.”

“The girls?”

“Terrified and traumatised beyond belief, but I think they’ll be okay,” Sam nodded, glancing around at the still-bound teenagers with sympathy, “you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah, yeah… just, uh… go cut them free and lemme just… lemme catch my breath…”

Dean sagged back onto the ground, rolling onto his back and groaning again. His heart thudded painfully in his chest but at least it was beating again, even if it felt like it was now trying to punch its way out of his ribcage. He let himself breathe deeply; sure enough, the beat began to slow, calming, the pain fading as the aftereffects of the spell finally began to wear off.

Satisfied that his brother just needed a moment to recover, Sam had turned his attention to the frightened captives, as he holstered his gun and retrieved his knife, hastily wiping the blood from the blade on a bandana from his pocket, keen to avoid terrifying them any further.

“Alright, girls, I know you’re scared, but it’s over… I’m just gonna cut you free and then we’re gonna take you back to your folks, alright? Just stay calm…”

Sam kept up a litany of reassurances as he severed the ropes of the first girl, who was sobbing and hiccuping, shivering in her thin pyjamas.

“Go wait outside, okay? I’ll be right with you, just go outside, you’ll be safe, I promise…”

The girl nodded and fled; Sam made short work of the other restraints and as the last girl ran to safety, and Sam sheathed his knife, then frowned…

The barn was rapidly filling with thick, black smoke, and he realised with some dismay that in the fight, several of the candles had fallen… igniting the loose packing straw that covered the floor, and that flames were now licking at the dry, creaking timbers of the barn’s structure. He grimaced as a stab of pain lanced through his head; when the witch had thrown him, the back of his skull had collided with something solid. He pressed one hand to his hair and winced at the flare of agony and the feeling of wet blood on his fingers. He did not have time to deal with it immediately; he had bigger concerns.

“Dean!”

Coughing, stumbling dizzily through the smoke as his head reeled in protest, Sam reached his brother just as Dean was scrambling to his feet; Sam grabbed his brother and hauled him up as Dean clung to him in turn and they fled the barn, staggering out into the cold night air as the barn lit up the night sky behind them… and the moon hung white and pale above them once more.

The five girls were clinging to each other, sobbing and keening in their terror, but they were alive, and they were safe. For a long moment, Sam and Dean stood there, both gasping and wheezing and hanging on to each other for support, until Dean pulled himself upright.

“Alright, kids, don’t panic. We’re FBI Agents… we’re gonna get you girls safely home to your folks, okay? It’s all gonna be okay,” Dean tried to sound reassuring, as if the girls had not just been possessed by the spirits of dead witches and then seen a woman brutally killed before their eyes as the barn they had been held in blazed behind them.

However, Dean’s relief was short-lived, when Sam suddenly waved, stumbled, and pitched to his knees with a pained exclamation.

“Sam? Hey, Sam, you okay?”

Dean’s own aches and pains were forgotten as he crouched, hands resting on his brother’s shoulders as he peered at him in concern; their pale, dirty features illuminated by the crackling flames as the fire began to consume the barn.

“Y-yeah,” Sam mumbled, unconvincingly, “I… um… I think I hit my head.”

“Did she hit you with a spell?”

“She hit us both with several spells, as I recall,” Sam half-laughed, dryly, running a hand through his hair, then groaning aloud, when he reached the back of his head, “ah, damnit…”

“What?”

Sam wordlessly held his hand up; despite the darkness of the night and by the light of the fire, Dean could see a shine of wetness on his brother’s fingers. Blood.

“Crap,” Dean mumbled, patting down his pockets and eventually producing a bandana, folding it up and passing it to Sam, who pressed it to the back of his head with a grimace, “you think you can walk back to the car?”

“Uh, yeah, maybe… but they can’t,” Sam gestured towards the terrified girls, and Dean bit back another sharp curse.

All of them were, of course, barefoot, dressed in pyjamas, having been snatched from their beds in the middle of the night over the course of a week. They were already shivering in the cool night air, holding on to each other, sniffling and hiccuping, too exhausted and scared out of their young minds to do anything else. There was no way they were all going to walk down through the orchard to where the car was parked, and Sam was barely in any shape to walk himself, let alone do it while carrying a couple of teenaged kids, even if Dean could manage the other three by himself. He heaved a heavy sigh.

“I’d better go fetch the car,” he decided, knowing he would be able to find the way back by following the light of the burning barn, “you gonna be alright here?”

“Yeah, sure,” Sam nodded slightly, with a slight wince.

“Alright, girls,” Dean turned on the huddled group of young teens, who were eying him with expressions ranging from terror to hope, “my name’s Dean, this is Sam, and your families are all worried sick about you so we’re here to take you all home, okay? You’re gonna be safe, I promise, I’ve just gotta go and fetch my car so I can drive us all back to town, and Sam here’s gonna wait with you, okay?”

He glanced down at Sam, who had managed to push himself up and onto his feet, the bandana still pressed to the back of his head.

“I’ll be back in a few.”

Sam gave him a pained smile; “Be quick.”

“Yeah.”

Dean gave a sharp nod, and took off at a run. Though he slipped and stumbled over the occasional tree root or the uneven ground of the orchard, he did not fall, too determined to complete his task as quickly as possible. With the blazing barn falling further behind him, he pulled out his torch once more, barely breaking stride as he switched it on and tore through the dark orchard.

Finally, he reached the dirt road where Baby was waiting for him; he leapt in and gunned the engine, hauling the wheel around, doing a tight several-point turn on the painfully narrow road, hearing a spray of gravel and dirt kick up behind him, as the car skidded a little, but then went bouncing back down the dirt track. He found what he was looking for by the bright lights of the headlamps; a narrow path that wound up the side of the sprawling orchard and he turned into it, pushing it as fast as he dared on the rough terrain, until finally, he could see a dim glow of light through the oppressively thick trees and the darkness of the night.

The barn fire was like a beacon, lighting the way, and he finally skidded to a halt in the yard outside the burning building and throwing the door open, leaping out and leaving the engine running as he yanked open the back door.

“Alright! Everybody get in!”

“C’mon, girls, let’s get you home,” Sam’s voice was gentler, if a little shaky, but the teen girls all willingly obeyed.

No doubt Sam had been comforting and reassuring them in Dean’s brief absence, and Dean watched as Sam shakily climbed to his feet, ushering the girls towards the car; one of them, the youngest, was clinging to one of his hands; he still had the other holding the bandana to his head. Dean opened up the back door. It was a tight squeeze but four of them crammed themselves into the back seat. The fifth was sobbing and refusing to let go of Sam’s hand, so he let her climb into the front seat and then got in after her; she immediately clung to him, curling into his side as he wrapped his free hand around her trembling shoulder.

“It’s okay, kids, we’re gonna get you somewhere safe,” Dean promised, as he got back behind the wheel, as Sam let out a breathless chuckle.

“Think we should call the fire brigade?”

“Nah. Let the body burn. Saves us a job. How’s your head?”

“Fine. I think the bleeding’s almost stopped…”

Dean nodded in approval, and turned on the car heaters to full blast.

“Girls, there’s a couple of blankets on the floor back there, get yourselves warmed up if you can, we’re gonna get you to a hospital so you can be checked out and then get you home to you folks, okay?

“Hey, Mister,” the oldest one had clearly regained some semblance of calm, though her voice shook with emotion, “what the hell happened back there? Who was that bitch?”

“Trust me, kid, ya don’t wanna know,” Dean sighed, “alright… let’s get the hell outta here.”

Nobody voiced any objection as Dean turned the car around, and drove back down the dirt road at a much more sedate pace.

Dean drove for a good couple of hours until they reached a town large enough to host a twenty-four-hour emergency clinic. The first dim rays of dawn were just starting to peek over the horizon as he pulled the car into the lot, exhaustion weighing heavily in the slump of his shoulders and the persistent, lingering ache in his chest.

“Okay, we’re here,” he called.

The five girls began to stir; one by one, they had gradually succumbed to the inevitable adrenaline crash and had either passed out or fallen asleep, but now, as they blinked their eyes open, yawning and stretching, they began to murmur in trepidation once more.

“It’s okay,” Sam said, reassuringly, “it’s a hospital. We just need to make sure you’re okay and then the nice folks here will call your parents to come and get you, okay?”

“We can go home?”

“Definitely,” Sam nodded, with a tired smile, “c’mon, let’s get you inside.”

Sam carried the youngest cradled in his arms; Dean took the one who was weakest from her ordeal, the first girl taken and held the longest. The others joined hands and limped slowly behind the two men, barefoot, their wrists and ankles raw from being bound; filthy and dishevelled, but lucky to be alive. When Sam stepped inside carrying the youngest girl, the man sitting behind the reception desk glanced up in surprise; this became dismay and then horror as Dean entered cradling another girl, the other three trailing behind them.

“What the hell…?”

“Agents Savage and Elliott, FBI. These children were abducted from their homes from across the State; we recovered them in the early hours of this morning. They need food, water, and medical attention, urgently.”

“I need some help out here!”

The receptionist bellowed over his shoulder even as he hit an emergency buzzer; as if from nowhere, several doctors and nurses burst from side rooms; there were exclamations of shock and dismay at the sight of the bedraggled girls, but professionalism kicked in. Warm blankets were fetched and wrapped around shoulders, gurneys were brought for the two unable to walk, the others were eased into wheelchairs and whipped away into side rooms…

… And in the chaos, their two battered and bruised rescuers slipped out of the door, unseen and unremarked, as they headed quickly and quietly towards their car.

They were long gone before anybody thought to question what had just happened.

In the sanctity of Dean’s beloved car, they both finally let out breaths of relief and sagged in their seats as Dean cruised down the highway towards the interstate.

“That… that was a good outcome,” Dean smiled, at last, “we ganked a witch and saved five girls. I’m calling that a win.”

“Yeah,” Sam replied, with a tired smile of his own, “it was a good one. But…”

“Oh, no. No, no, no, no… no ‘buts’. Can’t we for once, just for once, take the win with no big-bad-evil strings attached?”

“The spell she was casting, Dean. I think she finished it… and she said ‘he is free’. Who’s free? That’s what I want to know…”

“You think it’s Lucifer? His ass is locked in the cage, Sam, he can’t get out…”

“God, I hope so… but who else could she be talking about?”

“Who the hell knows?” Dean shrugged, carelessly, “And at this point, I’m too tired to friggin’ care. What say we find a motel, grab a few hours of sleep, and then hit the road back to the Bunker? I’m beat and so are you, and we could both do with a shower, some sleep, and some decent food… and we can check that melon of yours isn’t too scrambled while we’re at it.”

Sam let out a huff of a laugh; “Yeah. Yeah, okay. Sounds good.”

Dean shot his brother a knowing look.

“I’m serious, Sam. Let it go. If there is some new big bad evil out there, we’ll deal with him, her, or it, when it rears its ugly head… but until then, let’s take the win, assume Lenora Mayweather was a skeevy lying bitch who got everything that was comin’ to her, and when the papers publish the story about five missing girls miraculously turning up at an emergency clinic safe and sound, we’ll frame it for posterity, okay?”

“Yeah… yeah, you’re right,” Sam sighed, and then yawned widely, rubbing his eyes tiredly, “oh, man, my head is pounding. We got any Tylenol or something…?”

“Glovebox,” Dean replied, absently, keeping his attention on the road ahead, “you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah,” Sam repeated, as he popped open the storage compartment, fishing around the contents until he found the battered pill box, popping two capsules out of the blister pack and swallowing them dry, shutting it up again, “you’re right. I need a shower and some sleep, that’s all.”

“How many fingers am I holding up?” Dean flipped his brother the bird cheerfully.

“Not enough,” Sam held two up back at him in response.

Dean let out a bark of a laugh, and put his foot down. An hour or so later, the welcome sign for a roadside motel rolled into view, the sun bright overhead, but promising a few hours of rest before continuing the long journey back to the Bunker. Dean pulled into the lot, and they went to book themselves in.

Making their way to their room, ignoring the bemused looks of the clerk at their filthy, rumpled suits and battered appearances, Dean and Sam grabbed holdalls from the trunk and stumbled wearily into the room. It looked like a million others they had stayed in over the years; furniture from the eighties, two beds crammed uncomfortably close together, a TV, coffee percolator, and a tiny bathroom.

“Perfect,” Dean tossed his bag onto the further bed, stretching, grateful to be out of the car for a while, “you take the first shower, you need to wash the blood outta your hair, princess. I’ll grab the first aid kit.”

“Sure,” Sam did not feel like arguing, “thanks.”

Stripping out of his stained, soot-smelling suit was the first relief; the water pressure was mediocre but the temperature was pleasantly hot, and Sam was grateful to wash the matted blood out of his hair. He watched the red-tinted water swirling down the drain as the steam and heat helped to sooth some of the soreness from his aching muscles, but it did nothing for the pounding in his head – in fact, it seemed to be making it worse. He groaned softly as a wave of dizziness passed over him, bracing one hand against the tiled wall to steady himself. He switched off the water flow, taking a shaky breath as he tried to steady himself.

Stepping out of the shower, he towelled off, patted his hair dry as gingerly and thoroughly as he could manage without touching the raw wound on the back of his head, and then wrapped the towel around his waist, stepping back out into their room, shivering a little as the cool air hit his skin; a sharp shift from the humid warmth of the bathroom.

“Your turn,” he jerked his thumb over his shoulder, tiredly.

“Nah, I should see to that gourd of yours first…”

“Dean, you’re filthy, and I’ll be fine while I get dressed. Go take a shower. Please.”

Glancing down at himself, Dean pulled a face and then nodded; “Yeah, okay. Don’t pass out until I’ve had a chance to patch you up, okay?”

“Yeah, okay.”

Sam would have agreed to anything at that point, only half-listening at best. Dean grinned, and was already pulling off his jacket and tie, casting them carelessly to the floor as he went, leaving a trail of clothing all the way to the bathroom. Sam heard the shower come on, and he rummaged through his bag, pulling on clean boxers, sweatpants, and a black tee-shirt, easing it carefully over the throbbing wound on the back of his head. He pressed his hand to his eyes and indulged himself in a pained groan; the Tylenol had done nothing to ease his headache, and he wanted nothing more than to lie down and go to sleep.

He had no doubt that Dean would delight in dragging him awake again to fuss over his head wound, and he had no doubt that doing so would make him feel ten times worse. So, he gritted his teeth, and forced himself to stay awake as the room spun hazily around him.

It seemed to take an eternity for Dean to finish up in the shower, but finally, his older brother emerged, wrapped in one towel and using the other to scrub his hair dry with a vigour Sam envied in that moment. Dean looked refreshed and much happier; Sam felt like someone was using the inside of his skull as a snare drum.

“You look like crap,” Dean declared, cheerfully.

“Feel like it,” Sam huffed, pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead, “just need some sleep.”

“You and me both,” Dean agreed, “alright, lemme throw some clothes on and I’ll take a look.”

Sam kept his back turned and head slightly bowed as Dean got dressed; he could hear movement behind him, and did not even react as the bed he was sitting on creaked and dipped a little as Dean knelt on the mattress behind him, gentle fingers already brushing aside Sam’s still-damp hair.

“Alright, lemme see,” Dean murmured, softly, then sucked in a hiss of air through clenched teeth, “damn, Sammy, no wonder your head’s thumpin’; that looks nasty… it’s, uh… it’s gonna need a couple’a stitches back here, it’s still bleeding a bit…”

Sam hummed in resigned agreement, as Dean rummaged through their first aid kit. There was a sharp pinch that made Sam grimace, jolting him back to wakefulness as Dean put the first stitch in, but he settled for a grunt of discomfort and made himself hold still as Dean put in three more, tying them off and snipping the suture thread in a practiced move.

“There, that should hold,” Dean ruffled Sam’s hair and got a growl of disapproval in response, “you want me to stick a bandaid on it?”

“I think I’ll live,” Sam grumbled back, “I’m gonna go to sleep now.”

“Yeah, okay, I think you’re good,” Dean eased himself back off the bed, gathering the first aid kit back together haphazardly, dumping it into the nearest holdall, “just, uh… wake me if you need anything, okay?”

“You too,” Sam murmured, sleepily, easing himself under the sheet and blanket with a soft, pained moan; he lowered his head gingerly onto the pillow, and let his eyes drift closed.

Dean smiled fondly at the back of his brother's head; he might have been lying on the floor fighting for his life back in the barn, but he vividly remembered the fierce venom in Sam’s tone as he confronted the witch and saved his older brother in the process. Lying back in his own bed, Dean nestled into the lumpy pillows and sagging mattress, and let himself drift off to sleep, satisfied that they had won the day, looking forward to celebrating the victory properly once they got back to the Bunker.

It felt good to have a clear cut win for a change…

He drifted to sleep, soothed by the humming of the air conditioner, the drone of traffic on the highway, and Sam’s soft, relaxed breathing from the adjacent bed.