A/N: This fic takes place at an unspecified time during season 4. As long as you've seen the first episode or two of season 4 you probably won't encounter any significant spoilers. This is our first attempt at writing fanfiction, so please give us some helpful reviews!
*****
Platteville, Colorado. US Highway 85 simmered in the late July heat, its asphalt wet beneath oily ropes of heat distortion. Insects picked and buzzed in the dry grass on either side of the road. A grasshopper catapulted itself across the yellow median at the precise moment that a black '67 Chevy Impala roared past, and its life ended in a green smear across the car's gleaming chrome fender. The Impala's windows were down as it skidded around a corner and into town, throwing up a cloud of dust beneath its wheels, blasting AC/DC loudly enough to disrupt Platteville's quiet soundtrack of cicadas and wind in the trees. It was a middle of nowhere place isolated in a sea of flat, parched, nondescript land, but it was about to get a hell of a lot more interesting.
*****
"So, what did Bobby say?"
Sam folded himself back into the metal diner chair, dropping a newspaper on the table in front of Dean's plate of fries. "He's pretty sure it's the real deal. Part of some old summoning ritual, apparently. My guess is that someone's trying to summon a demon."
"With a crop circle? Must be a damn big demon," Dean commented around a mouth full of cheeseburger, reaching for the paper. He chewed thoughtfully, studying a picture at the bottom, an aerial shot of a local field with the clear rings and curved lines of a crop circle. Folding it back open, Dean gestured to another picture, this one of a middle-aged man.
"We think it's connected to the disappearance of this Andrews guy?"
Sam shrugged. "Maybe. If someone's trying to summon something, they'd need a blood sacrifice."
Dean paused in his eating long enough to give Sam a skeptical look. "But I thought this guy was mauled to death by a cougar."
"That's what the paper said, but I looked it up, Dean. A killing like that is pretty rare. In the last hundred years, there have only been ten people killed by mountain lions, and only two in this area. Paired with the cattle mutilations around here, and this crop circle symbol, I'm not convinced his death is a coincidence." Sam leaned back in his seat, watching Dean taking another large bite of his sandwich, ketchup dripping out onto the plate. He frowned and accused him indignantly, "Hey, you ordered without me. I was hungry."
"Then order. Get the special, that's what I ordered. It's great." He emphasized his point by popping a fry into his mouth.
Right on time, a waitress bustled over, notepad in hand. "Are you going to get something, honey?"
Sam gave her a smile, and distractedly ordered the special. The waitress jotted it down and promised it would be out in a jiff, turning back to the kitchen, her white sneakers squeaking on the linoleum floor.
"We should pay a visit to the widow tonight, see if she noticed anything weird before her husband was taken," Dean said. He glanced over his shoulder at the waitress's retreating form with undisguised interest.
Sam was silent for a moment, but Dean seemed oblivious to the weightiness of his pause, and only turned back around when Sam asked, tensely, "Dean, do you think this could be a seal?"
Dean raised his eyebrows in acknowledgement of Sam's point, considering a reply, but something on the other side of the window distracted him and he gazed out at it with narrowed eyes. "Dude, look at that goat."
"I'm serious, Dean," Sam forged on. "Lilith has already broken too many seals. We can't let her win this one."
"No, really. I think it's watching me."
Sam, exasperated, glanced at the object of Dean's distress. It was standing by the side of the road, its mouth slowly hinging back and forth as it chewed on a tuft of grass. Rather like his brother, Sam thought. The similarity was uncanny. "It's just a goat." He paused and gave it another look, suspicious this time. "I think it is watching you," he conceded, surprised.
"Goats, man. They creep me out."
"Seriously?"
"Creepy eyes," Dean elaborated, gesturing at his own for clarification.
The waitress reappeared, interrupting Sam's laughter. He tucked the newspaper away, clearing the table for her to set down his drink and the steaming plate of food. He took a big gulp of water, and then peered again at his plate, frowning at the unidentifiable fried objects that were garnished with a leaf of lettuce and cup of thick red sauce. He opened his mouth to protest (it was definitely not what Dean was eating), but his brother had already engaged the waitress in conversation.
With a hand on her hip, the waitress laughed at Dean's discomfiture. "I see you've met Harriet – she's one of the last goats in town. I think she likes you."
Dean grinned. "I'm not into that. So, you know of any good places to stay around here?"
"Honey, this is a small town. Nearest hotel is in Longmont, about a half hour away. But Mrs. Perez usually has a room to rent. She runs a bed and breakfast just a couple of blocks down the road."
Looking up from where he was prodding at the fried objects with his fork, Sam interjected, "Thanks, but what do you mean by one of the last goats in town?"
"Haven't you heard?" She leaned with one hand on the table towards Sam, ready to gossip. "The whole town's in an uproar. Livestock have been dying for weeks—not just dying, you know, but getting killed. A couple dozen more goats were found this morning on Mr. Jensen's farm, slaughtered in just the same way. No one's quite sure what happening." She shook her head. "It's the strangest thing. And scary, if you ask me."
Sam and Dean exchanged a significant glance, and Sam's forehead wrinkled in thought. While he mulled this over, he automatically took a bite of food, and then paused mid-chew, unsure of what he was tasting. "What is this?"
"Those are Rocky Mountain oysters, honey. The special, best in the state."
Dean, unable to help himself any longer, snorted with laughter. "Dude, you just ate a ballsack."