Author’s side notes: Fiction is greatly dispersed among the small factual tidbits we have incorporated about witchcraft and pentagrams. No disrespect to any beliefs or religion was intended.

“You’re staring at me again,” Sam straightened up in his seat and shot his brother a hard glare.

“Am not.” Dean quickly averted his eyes back to the road. “You’re not exactly a sight for sore eyes, road kill.”

It was true. Sam knew he looked like shit. That was fitting considering that he also felt like shit.

He’d had to do some pretty fancy obfuscating to keep his brother from taking him straight to the hospital after the night they’d had. It wasn’t exactly like he’d lied to Dean, he just didn’t tell him everything that was going on. Like the pounding drum solo in his head, or the hot knife in his gut. Those weren’t necessary admissions at the moment.

“You up for some breakfast?” Dean asked, when his brother didn’t even bother to counter his insult. “We can swing by and grab something from the Jalapeño.”

Sam’s stomach rebelled at the very idea and he leaned his head against the cool window of the passenger’s side door. “No.”

He was surprised when Dean’s hand suddenly rested against the side of his neck. “You’re still warm. You feeling sick?”

The younger hunter lifted his head and forced a smile. “I’m just not up to eggs and chilies.”

Dean frowned. “I don’t like this Sam.” He finally withdrew his hand from his brother. “After what the old man said…and then last night.” The words hung between them like a heavy fog, but neither brother wanted to give voice to their suspicions or fears.

“I know,” Sam sighed. “But we both know that finding out what’s going on here is our best bet.” It was the closest either of them had come to admitting that Sam might be sick-that he had become a part of what was going on.

“You want to tell me about that dream you had last night?”

Sam swallowed reflexively. He wasn‘t ready to go there. “No.”

“Fine.” Dean tightened his hands on the steering wheel and willed himself not to push. Pushing only made Sam pull-and that got them nowhere.

“But I have thought about the whole elements and pentagram thing.”

Dean looked at him, slightly relieved at the change of subject. Honestly, he wasn‘t sure he wanted to know what Sam had dreamed about. “Let’s hear it, college boy.”

“Well, I looked back over the profiles that I created of the victims. It kind of makes sense. Carly Reins was the artist-she did wood carvings and sculptures. You could postulate that to be a connection to Earth.”

“Postulate?” Dean raised an eyebrow. “Damn, you are smart.”

Sam rolled his eyes but continued on. “Kaplan is obvious- he was a preacher.”

Dean nodded. “Spirit.”

“And Kinkade-he’s a weather man who makes weathervanes-Air.”

“That’s reaching, Sammy. Hell, I use to fly kites when we were a kid- does that make me a target.”

“Maybe the person just has to be a representation of the element.”

“But for what purpose?”

Sam sighed. “The pentagram can represent the five elements-right. And it provides protection?”

“Yeah, so. Protection from what?”

“I don’t know. But I think if we find that out, we may find out who started all this and be able to stop it.”

Dean glanced at him again, but didn’t say what he was thinking. Before it stops us. “Then let’s head over to Morry’s Garage and see if that box might have any clues to help us.”

Morry McCamis was a big man. He was as tall as Sam and probably weighed twice as much. With his long silver hair and beard and startling blue eyes Dean thought that he was a dead ringer for Santa Claus-that was if Santa wore leather chaps and rode a Harley.

“I got to tell you boys, you’ve sure added some excitement to my work week.” The giant of a man nearly knocked Dean over as he slapped him roughly on the back. Sam bit back a grin.

“First, I get called out to patch up your little lady from an attack by some bad-ass bandit with a bow and arrow of all things.” He glanced at Dean, “She is one sweet ride by the way.”

“Thanks,” Dean said, rubbing his now aching shoulder. He’d only thought all the aches and pains from the fall had disappeared.

“Then, you two bring me a treasure box to open.” Morry laughed. “What next? You boys going to hunt down Big Foot and bring him to me to skin, stuff or mount.”

The mechanic handed Sam a card. “I do that by the way. Morry’s Taxidermy is the finest in three states. If you‘re staying at the Rest Inn, you‘ve probably seen some of my best work.”

Sam shared a quick look with his brother, before reluctantly slipping the card in his shirt pocket. “Yeah, we’ve seen them.” Freak.

Morry nodded and scratched at his beard, like a hound dog digging fleas. “Miss Maggie sure does love her cats, that’s for sure.”

“And we’d really love to stay and chat, Morry.” Dean flashed the man his cocky grin, “But we sure do have a lot of things to cover for our story, that box being one of them.”

“Oh, right, right,” Morry hurried over to a lone bench and picked up the metal strong box. “It took me a while, but I finally got the dad-burn thing opened.” He handed the box to Dean.

“Sorry but I peeked. Not a damn thing in there but some papers and an old book. No treasure.”

“That’s too bad,” Dean took the box and lifted the lid. Just like Morry said there were some folded documents that were yellowing and wrinkled from time, as well as a leather bound journal. The thing that caught Dean’s attention though was the symbol embossed on the cover of the book-it was a pentagram.

The young hunter closed the box and looked at the mechanic. “So how much do we owe you , Morry?”

The big man waved his hand in the air. “Don’t worry about it, kid. I’m going to charge you a pretty penny when I put the glass back in that black beauty of yours. So, we’ll just call it even.”

Dean nodded, not sure if he should feel grateful or worried. “Ready, Sam?”

Sam hadn’t missed the look that crossed his brother’s face when he'd opened the strong box, and quickly said his goodbyes to Morry. “So?” he questioned, as they made there way back to the car.

Dean sat the box on the hood of the Impala and pulled out the book. “Check this out.” He handed it to his brother and then pulled the papers out to look at.

Sam took hold of the journal and brushed his hand over the cover, removing dust and dirt as he did. “This thing looks really old.” He traced his fingers over the star-like symbol on the front. “A pentagram.”

“Did you see the writing below it?”

Sam read the small, fine, manuscript. “Spells, sorcery, and enchantments.” He looked at his brother. “A handbook?”

Dean shrugged. “Maybe it’s the 1800’s version of Witchcraft for Dummies.”

“This doesn’t make sense.” Sam shook his head. “Witchcraft isn’t usually demonic or evil in nature. It’s actually the opposite.”

“Yeah, well tell that to the Wicked Witch of the West, bro. Someone‘s cooked up a pretty freaky spell and I doubt they did it by wiggling their nose.”

Sam rolled his eyes and opened the book. “There’s a name in here- Marguerrite Dellacrois. Maybe this belonged to her.”

“I don‘t know about that,” Dean mumbled as he read through the documents, “but I can tell you who our favorite condemned haunted homestead belonged to.”

Sam raised a brow as Dean shoved the yellowing parchment at him. “This is the title to it.” He poked his finger at a scribbled name near the bottom of the last page. “Jebidiah Monroe.”

“Why does that sound familiar?”

“Because,” Dean frowned, “You’re friend the formaldehyde preserved photographer was named Monroe.”

“You’re never going to let that go-are you?”

His brother took the book back and put it in the box with the papers. “Not in this lifetime, little brother." He then handed Sam the box and walked around the front of the Impala. "Let's make a social call to Ansel Adams."

Sam sighed. No one held a grudge like a Winchester.

Dean rubbed his hand over the dirty window and pressed his face closer to the glass, trying to get a better look inside the photo shop. “No one’s here.”

They’d come to ‘Ye Old Timey Photo’ only to find a closed sign hanging on the door and no evidence of the man who had taken their picture.

Sam sat down on the wooden bench lining the covered porch. “Dean, the guy may not have anything to do with this Monroe.”

“Well, just call it a hunch-but nobody looks that creepy without having something to hide.”

Sam smirked. “You said that about your 8th grade English teacher, too. You tried to convince Dad that she was a succubus demon.”

Dean stepped away from the door, controlling his urge to smash the glass and let himself in. It was broad daylight after all. He ignored the amused look on his brother’s face and stepped back into the street. “Well, Mrs. Unger was old and creepy.”

“I liked her.”

“You would. Of course, only you would like a succubus demon.”

“You just didn’t like her because she failed you-twice- if my memory serves me well.”

“Shut up.” Dean sighed, and nodded to the book Sam had been flipping through since leaving the garage. “Did you find anything in there?”

“Just lots of spells. Some I’ve seen before. There’s everything in here from how to call a loved one from the grave to how to make someone fall in love with you.”

Dean grinned. “You better write that last one down,Geek Boy.”

“Bite me.” Sam shut the book, and wiped the back of his hand over his brow. He was burning up, and it wasn‘t even hot out yet. He cleared his throat. “There’s nothing in here that seems as if it could be connected to what’s going on.”

“Maybe the book isn’t what’s important.”

Sam frowned. “You mean the name?”

Dean shrugged. “ Maybe this Marguerrite chick is the witch we’re looking for. Why don’t you run it by Sally when you go see her about Reese Mathers.”

“It couldn’t hurt.” Sam stood and found him self grabbing for the railing as his legs nearly gave way. “Whoa,” he squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head as images suddenly flashed through his mind.

A man and a woman were standing in a room lit by a roaring fire and candles.

The woman’s back was to Sam, but he could see the old man.

His face was sad-like, almost resigned.

Then a glint of silver in the firelight.

The man gasped and fell to his knees, blood blossoming crimson on the front of his shirt.

His unfamiliar face-contorted in pain. He looked down at his blood-covered hands and then slowly lifted his eyes to meet Sam’s.

This time the eyes were well known-the face etched into Sam’s heart. No!

“Dean!” Sam gasped and brought his hands to his pounding head. The porch swirled back into focus, and his brother’s concerned face swam into view.

“Sammy! His brother was in front of him, hands grasping his shoulders to keep him on his feet. “What is it? What‘s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Sam finally managed to choke out. He shook his head, straightened himself and stepped away from his brother, needing to distance himself from Dean and the vision he’d just had. “I just got a little dizzy. That‘s all.”

“Right.” Dean didn’t look at all convinced. He knew his brother better than anyone. It took a lot to scare Sam, but Dean had heard fear in his voice. “You’ve been doing that a lot lately.” This was much more than a cold or a virus.

The younger hunter shrugged, raking his slightly shaking hands through his hair. “I’m fine.”

“Sure you are.”

Sam forced a smile, despite the feeling of dread and panick that was building. “Are you going to waste time arguing or are you going to the Kinkades?” The sooner they finished this hunt, the better.

“We’re going to have to talk about this, Sam.”

“I thought you were all for repressing emotional baggage? What happened to my ‘no chick flick moments’ brother?”

When the other hunter only continued to stare at him, Sam sighed. “Look, I’ll meet you back at the Sheriff’s when you’re done at the Kinkades. We‘ll talk about it then.”

Dean stepped off the porch, his appraising gaze still not wavering from Sam. He knew damn well his brother didn‘t plan on talking about whatever the hell was going on with him-besides the obvious. Sometimes he wished for Sam to be the same open book he was when he was six. Dean could get him to tell him anything then. Damn Winchester stubbornness. “Do you need me to drop you at the library?”

The younger man shook his head. “It’s just down the street. I think I can manage.”

Okay- Dean could play their usual game. “Yeah, well, don’t make me come looking for your ass, Sammy. I know what libraries and little old ladies in support panties do for you-but try to stayed focused.”

Sam shook his head at his brother’s poor attempt at normalcy. “I’ll try my best.”

Mrs. Carolyn Kinkade pushed a blond curl behind her ear and forced a weary smile. She was probably close to Dean‘s age he guessed, but the weeks of grief had taken their toll, making her appear much older than her years. “I’ll try to remember, but I don’t really understand how recounting my husband’s last days would help you. Both the police and the CDC found no connection to the other victims.”

Dean nodded. “I know, but sometimes it takes a fresh perspective, mam.”

The woman sighed and wrung her hands nervously. “Please- call me Carolyn. Mam seems like my mother.“ She glanced out the sliding glass door to where a toe-headed boy no older than fourwas swinging on an old tire swing and took a shuddering breath. “It’s not very exciting. My husband was the local weatherman at the news station in Bowie. In the days before he died, he went to work, came home, and did some work in his garage. That’s about it.”

Dean followed her gaze to the yard that was literally bursting with hundreds of different sculptured weathervanes. “I take it those were a hobby.”

She smiled and some of her veiled prettiness slipped through. “Yes, he sold them at the local flea market, mostly to tourists. Honestly, he was just obsessed with the wind, and weather in general.”

“When did you know your husband was sick?”

“He just started feeling bad out of the blue. We thought he had caught the flu-you know.”

“What kind of symptoms did he have?”

“He was throwing up, dizzy, running a slight fever in the beginning- the first day or so. By the third day he was so sick we had to take him to the hospital.”

So whatever it was seemed to take three days to run its course. “Mrs. Kaplan mentioned that you met the young woman,” Dean looked at his notes, “Carly Reins’, fiancé before he left town.”

“I did. Did you know she was only twenty-two?” Carolyn shook her head. “Taylor was devastated. He was taking her to Vegas from here-to get married. But the only place he got to take her was to California where her family lived-to be buried.”

“Did she have all the same sort of symptoms as your husband?”

“Yes.”

“The CDC came and did an investigation, but even they've all but pulled out. And now there's the other man,” Carolyn wiped at her eyes, “I just don't understand why this is happening. ”

“I'm sorry- did you say there was another man?”

The blond nodded. “I ran into one of Marcus' nurses at the market this morning. She said that Cal Davis was brought in last night.”

“Do you know this Davis guy?”

“Not really. I know that his grandmother is in the nursing home where I volunteer sometimes. She is a really sweet old lady. Cal was her only family-a fisherman from Seattle-I think. She's all alone now-well except for Reese”

“Reese?” Dean was sure he wouldn't get that lucky, but stranger things had happened and Reese wasn‘t a common name. It was possible Carolyn was talking about Rose’s father. “You wouldn't happen to mean Reese Mathers, would you?”

Carolyn looked surprised. “Yeah. He lives at the nursing home too. Do you know him?”

“Not really. I've just heard of him. He was a reporter back in the day.”

“I'd almost forgotten that,” the blond smiled. “He likes to tell such outlandish stories-sometimes I forget that there may be a grain of truth to them.”

“What kinds of stories?”

“The fantastic kind, you know. He talks about government cover-ups, aliens, Big Foot-he's not exactly in our reality most of the time. Reese is quite the character. They say he went crazy after his wife died-claiming that what caused her death was a vengeful spirit.”

Dean couldn't help but to think of his own father-his own life. “Sometimes truth is stranger than fiction.”

Carolyn looked at the hunter with something akin to regret. “Reese called me after Marcus died. He was spouting all these theories-I'm afraid I wasn't very nice to him.”

She sighed. “I guess he just wanted to give me something to blame. Maybe that's what he's wanted all these years.” The woman looked at Dean. “I can understand that now.”

Her eyes filled with tears again, and the hunter felt an urgent need to be outside in the fresh air. As corny as it sounded, he could never stand to see a woman cry. “I'm sorry.” Dean stood, wishing Sam were there to offer the comfort that his brother seemed so easily able to give to anyone in pain. “I should let you get back to what you were doing.”

“I hope you find what you're looking for,” Carolyn told the hunter as she led him back through the hallway to the front door. “For all our sakes.”

“Me too,” Dean nodded, and shook the woman's hand. He started to step off the porch but stopped and turned to look at her again. “I almost forgot…”

“Yes?”

“You wouldn‘t happen to have a recent picture of your husband do you? I mean for our story.” Please say no.

A sad smile tugged at the corner of the woman‘s mouth. “I do. Hold on.”

The few moments that it took for Carolyn to come back seemed to creep by as Dean hoped the little voice in his head was way off the mark.

Carolyn returned and handed Dean a silver frame. “He and Daniel had it made just before Marcus got sick.”

Dean had to force down the lump that had sprung to his throat as the smiling face of Marcus Kinkade greeted him from beneath the rim of a black Stetson hat. The little boy he’d seen earlier in the back yard was grinning, sitting astride his father’s lap, feathers in his hair and sporting streaks of war paint on his young face.

Green eyes lifted and met watery blue ones. “You had this made at the shop in town.” It wasn’t a question, because Dean already knew the answer.

Carolyn nodded, one hand barely resting on her lips, the other resting across her heart.

“The nice old man did it for free.” She nearly choked on the soft sob that escaped. “He said every boy needed a picture of their father-just in case…”

“I’m sorry,” Dean cut her off. He was sorry.

He was sorry for the pain he saw on Carolyn’s face. Sorry that the little boy would grow up without a father, and that Mrs. Kaplan had lost her husband when she and the reverend should have been able to grow old together. The hunter was sorry that a twenty-two year old girl was rotting in a grave somewhere, instead of marrying her grieving fiancé. But Dean was especially sorry that he’d never questioned his father’s orders and that he’d brought his brother to New Hope.

He handed the picture back to Carolyn. “I’ve got to go.”

Dean was off the porch and headed for the Impala before the young woman could gather her thoughts. “But the picture…I thought you needed it for your story,” she called after him.

The hunter kept going, ignoring the woman, as he reached the Impala and climbed into the false perimeter of safety that it offered. The only thing that he needed at that moment was to find Sam. Dean needed his brother.

Onto Chapter 6

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