Shannon rounds the back of the cottage. The weeds are as tall as her thighs and catch at the pouch of herbs tied to her belt. Systematically, she disables each hex bag under the eaves, tucked behind decaying shutters or wedged into cracks at the shack's foundation. She drops a pinch of powered bindweed every few steps and whispers sacred words. When it comes to witches, she doesn't fuck around. Witches are her thing; if a witch needs their ass kicked, Shannon gets the call.
Other hunters stalking this witch have already gone missing. Two of them – brothers. The Winchesters, she's been told. They haven't been seen in six months, and their last case tracks back here, to Old Man Maginn's place. Word has it they're reckless, and it just might've gotten them killed this time. But she has to be sure.
The sun is dipping below the edge of the treeline; soon, it will be dangerously dark. Shannon picks up the pace, finishing preparations as best she can. Lights are on inside, at the rear of the house. A neighbor's dog bellows, miles away, but she's already taken care of Maginn's cur with a steak full of belladonna.
She pulls up the hood of her black sweatjacket and peeks into a window, sees Maginn. The old witch is puttering around his kitchen, a big pot on the stove. His coveralls are stained and threadbare. He rubs his gnarled hands together and looks mighty pleased with himself, for whatever reason. He leaves again, and Shannon tries the back door. Locked, but easy enough to jimmy, which she does with the casual skill of a practiced catburglar.
She doesn't enter, though, because she hears voices in the house. Other people – men, from the sounds of it – are nearing. She slips back to her secret perch by the window, fingertips dislodging the flaking paint on the sill. No salt lines or goofer dust, she notes absently.
Maginn ushers a young man into the kitchen, might be in his early twenties or a speck older. Handsome guy, if you like 'em stout. Tall, vaguely bow-legged, his t-shirt snug and his belly dewlapping over the waist of his jeans, as if he's wearing somebody else's clothes. He looks doped, eyes at half-mast and gait shambling. Maginn stops him with a hand on his shoulder then lifts up the t-shirt, assessing the paunch with a skeptical eye. He pulls at the love handles and inspects the thickness of the younger man's arms, the skin dimpling where his fingers press.
Weird. Or not, if Maginn took to cannibalism. Old-school, mythical witchcraft. The kind that appeases Samhain. Shannon shudders.
Maginn barks out to someone in another room: "Sam." Shannon fumbles in her pocket for the photo that has been slipped her way by Bobby Singer. It's a faded old Polaroid (hunters aren't in the habit of keeping souvenirs around) and she flips it over. Written in ballpoint on the back are the names 'Sam' and 'Dean', and 'Blue Earth, Minnesota.' Question answered. She's found her Winchesters.
She's heard tell of witches actually fattening folk for consumption, a la Hansel and Gretel, but has never actually seen one. Looks like this brother, Dean she supposes, is the sacrifice du jour and Maginn clearly has him ensorcelled. Well, fuckity fuck. Means she can't count on him to help. He probably outweighs her twice over and even ruffied, if Maginn says jump, he will try.
Maybe Sam will be of some use … but no. When the other Winchester boy stumbles into the kitchen, he's in no better shape than his brother, but on the opposite end of the spectrum. The Sam in the photo is lanky, mop-haired and broad-shouldered; this one has bones trying to poke out through his skin. Maginn is a sick bastard, starving one while fattening the other. Guess it's cheaper that way. But why even keep Sam around? She'll ponder that later.
Maginn manages to snap his arthritic fingers, and the one that must be Sam pulls to attention, eyes dull over frightfully sharp cheekbones. Maginn wears a sour expression as he drags Sam over by his holey t-shirt. The kid's jeans sag halfway down his bony ass, past the jut of a hip. Maginn roughly tugs at Sam's belt, tightens it another notch, then snaps, "Stir, boy. Better not burn, 'er I'll throw yer kin in the root cellar. You know what's in the cellar." Shannon hears everything through the cheap old single-paned windows.
Dean looks up at the harsh words and his eyes are puffy, numb voids, but his fingers scrape at the stained Formica table. He's in there, somewhere. Just gotta peel back the magic.
Maginn gives Sam the Evil Eye – might actually be the real McCoy – and moves to the icebox. He pulls out a half-gallon of milk and drops it on the table in front of Dean, who listlessly tracks the witch's movements.
"Drink," Maginn says, almost parentally.
Dean obeys without a word. He chugs the stuff, emptying half the carton in a series of swallows. He pauses to breathe, and Maginn pats him on the head. Like a pet.
"Doin' good, boy. Now go on. Down the hatch."
Maginn doesn't even bother to supervise; he goes over to a hutch and rummages behind suspicious jars and canisters for a deep ceramic bowl. Dean is gulping down the remains of the milk, though it might be cream judging by the thickness of the dribble on his chin. Jesus, witches. She'll never get her brain wrapped around why they do what they do.
The old fuck returns and prods Sam with the bowl. Sam flinches. Sam flinches. He's in there. They're both in there, fighting for control. There's hope.
"Feed 'im. Don't leave no scraps, y'hear? Got two more weeks, that's all. Then I'll let ya go." Maginn grins, flashing missing teeth and those that remain are yellow and twisted. He's not fooling anyone; both boys will be dead in a fortnight.
Sam piles stew into the bowl and slides a wooden spoon from a drawer. He sits at the table with his brother and they stare at the food. Not moving.
Maginn's rheumy eyes narrow and the air thickens; Shannon can feel it, even outside. He begins to chant, no, snarl, and the Winchesters start breathing more quickly, their faces pinching in pain. Dean's fleshy jowls quiver and Sam curls a skeletal fist around the handle, scooping up a heaping spoonful. He barely looks at his brother, but Dean opens his mouth obligingly now. There's an obvious flicker of venom in Dean's eyes when he glances at Magill. He inches a hand across the table to his brother, his thick fingers wrapping around Sam's left wrist, so wasted it's nothing but tendons and skin.
Sam feeds Dean mouthful after mouthful until Dean is sweating and both boys' eyes are glistening and Shannon can't stomach it anymore.
She reaches for the gun tucked at the small of her back, slipping off the safety. Silently, she creeps to the rear door, which is scarred with scratches from Old Man Maginn's now-dead dog and adds a few more of her own, raking her nails over the wood. Standing to the side yet still out of sight, she prays the boys keep at their task and the witch answers the door himself.
There are footfalls. She waits.
The door's latch rattles and it opens a crack. Shannon's a sizable woman with a sizable boot, and a good hard kick sends the door flying wide. She lifts her gun and shoots.
Old Man Maginn's head pretty much explodes off his neck. Shannon swallows back a gag as brain and bone shards hit her face. It takes the body a few seconds to cease all autonomic functions and actually expire, but when it does, Dean moans.
"Jesus fucking Christ, thank you." He drags his arm across his mouth and urgently pushes back from the table.
Sam stumbles up, all matchstick limbs and hollow clothing. "Who – ?"
"I'm Shannon. Bobby Singer sent me."
Sam can't help himself, he staggers over to her, throws his arms around her neck, whispering a litany of thank you thank you thank you.
"S'okay, kid," Shannon says, cringing when her reciprocal hug feels the knobs of his spine and every rib.
Dean lumbers to standing, hands cradling his bloated belly. His eyes are wild and still wet, incredulous. "S-sammy?" He barely gets the name out.
Sam unpeels from Shannon and practically falls onto his brother. They stay that way, in each others' arms, for a solid minute. Dean dwarfs Sam, practically swallows him up even though Sam looks to be taller. It's heartbreaking.
Shannon fishes out her phone and calls Singer. Boy, does he owe her a big one.
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