Dean was humming tunelessly, slapping his hands on the steering wheel. Then he started singing a tiny, short song, consisting solely of the words, "Tucumcari tonight!" repeated over and over. Sam put up with this for about one minute, then reached out and bopped his brother on the ear.
"Stop that," he muttered, staring back down at his laptop.
"What? Damn, that gets stuck in my head every time we pass one of those billboards..." He started singing quietly again.
"Dude. Just stop. It's irritating." They were about forty miles east of Tucumcari, it was the middle of the day, there was no way on God's earth they were going to stop in Tucumcari for anything other than gas or a quick lunch. Ever. It was hot, the sun was blazing down, the wind coming in the open windows just moved hot, dry air around, and all he wanted was to stop in an air conditioned restaurant for an hour and cool down.
"Stop for lunch there?" he added.
"Sure." Dean reached to turn the radio on again, fiddled with the dial, and sighed. "Still radio-free eastern New Mexico. Damn." He pressed down the gas pedal, increasing the speed, until they were going eighty-five. There were still cars passing them.
Half an hour later, he pulled Baby into the parking lot of Del's Restaurant. He had been lured in by the giant cow on top of the sign; Sam did a quick check on Yelp before they climbed out, and gave the okay. They strode in, waited by the huge, colorful cow painting to be seated, and just soaked in the cool air.
As Sam ate his chile rellenos, he was studying the latest local police alerts. He paused his eating and said, "Hunh. This is interesting."
Dean's mouth was full of green chile enchiladas, so he merely grunted encouragement, raised his eyebrows.
"Dude gets trampled to death by horses..."
Dean swallowed, frowned. "Doesn't sound like our kinda thing."
"Actually..." Sam straightened, pushed the laptop to face Dean. "Yes it does. Because he was trampled in his office, sixth floor of a business building in Albuquerque. Guy named Alex Chavez."
Dean's fork stopped halfway to his mouth. He looked at Sam, blinked, said, "You have a point." He ate his bite, quickly scanning the article Sam had pulled up from the Albuquerque Journal. "Man. What a way to go." He shivered, pushed the laptop back. "Okay, then: looks like we're stopping in Albuquerque."
***
Detective Martinez eyed them suspiciously. "So what's the FBI doing here?"
"We're with the 'weird deaths' division," Dean answered jokingly as he handed their fake business cards over. "Give our boss a call; she'll back us up."
Martinez looked down at the cards, turned them over, looked back at them, and seemed to make up his mind. "Nah, don't need to do that. Yeah, this is a weird one, all right. And we've got another vic that just came in, this guy's business partner, a guy named Joe Farmer. If it weren't for the weird way they...died...I'd be calling it a double homicide, looking for anyone who had it in for them. But hell if I know how anyone could kill them this way..."
He took off his baseball cap, scratched the back of his head, put it back on. Sam and Dean looked at each other, nodded.
Dean said, "So, mind if my partner and I look around the scene?" He gestured with his head toward the office behind the yellow crime scene tape.
Martinez waved them in, saying, "Be my guest, gents. Go right ahead."
They bent down under the tape, entered the office. Sam sniffed around, muttered, "No trace of sulfur." Dean nodded.
"Look for hex bags, cursed coins, that kind of thing. Has to be witches..."
Sam snorted. "Dude. We've been doing this long enough. I know what to look for." He moved away, started opening drawers in the sleek mahogany office desk. Dean felt around the edges of the tall bookshelf, pulled out books to look behind them, pulled it out a bit from the wall to check the baseboard. Neither of them found anything until Sam thought to look at the architectural drawings on an easel, some sort of PR presentation; he pulled out a small, dark bag from behind the boards, tossed it to Dean.
"Shit," Dean cursed morosely. "I was hoping it was something else. I hate witches. So damn skeevy!" He shuddered. "Ugh." He pocketed the hex bag, headed to the door. Sam followed.
"Hey, Martinez!" Dean called out after ducking under the tape again. "Where's the new crime scene?"
Martinez gave them an address and specific directions; the second victim had been killed in a temporary trailer out on the property the two were developing, out on the other side of the Sandias.
***
The trailer was easy to find using Martinez's directions. He had called ahead, so the officers there waved them in. The scene was hectic, with forensics people everywhere, bagging and tagging various things. The body was still sprawled on the cheap carpet; Sam and Dean took one quick look at the body, then turned away.
"Son of a bitch. Someone was really angry," Dean muttered.
"Whoa, yeah," Sam agreed softly. He scanned the trailer, trying to see things around the horde of forensics guys. He elbowed Dean in the side, nodded toward a presentation easel by the window. "What do you want to bet it's there?"
"Hunh. I don't take sucker bets, dude."
Dean skirted around the body and the three guys shooting photos, reached around the bottom of the drawings, pulled out a hex bag and pocketed it quickly before anyone noticed. He jerked his head at Sam, and they wove their way through the crowd, out of the trailer.
"So. Witches. How do we find them, Sammy?" he asked as they strode to the Impala.
Sam ran his hand through his hair, pushing it back out of his face. "Get some background, first, I think..." he said as he ducked into the car.
Dean turned the key in the ignition, backed out, turned back onto the main road. "We passed a couple of gas stations on the way here. Let's check 'em out, get some munchies."
Sam privately thought they'd be more likely to find the munchies than any kind of information, but kept his mouth shut.
***
"Enemies? Whoa, yeah, shitloads out here," the kid at the first gas station said as soon as they asked. Sam looked darkly at Dean, who just smirked.
"So tell us about them. Why do you say 'loads' of enemies?" Sam asked. He figured an FBI agent would be somewhat uptight about using curse words.
The kid leaned on the counter. "Well, dude. It's fucking Alex Chavez. He's a real douche. My dad says no-one liked him in high school, and he didn't like them. Real city type, y'know? But his ma died, and he had to go live with his dad, Old Man Chavez, out on the ranch. He hated it. Got into lots of fights. When he hit eighteen, he was outta there, back to the Burque. And then he got the ranch after all, when his dad died. He's-he was-planning to split it up, develop it, sell it. Made a lot of folks angry. Then he did that thing to Bobbi Jo, and, well..." The kid trailed off.
"What thing?" Dean asked alertly.
The kid shrugged. "I dunno. But all the witchy ladies were snarking about it the other day, before their Jazzercise class."
Dean opened his mouth, closed it, paused, blinked. Witches at a Jazzercise class?
Sam stepped in. "'Witchy ladies'?" he prompted.
"Oh, yeah, Martha and Jessie and Liz and...oh, the rest of them."
"So, uh...why do you call them witches?" Dean asked casually.
"Oh, man, I dunno! Y'know, they wear those flowing clothes, and have those 'coexist' bumper stickers, and always have crystals and stuff. New agey. I mean, they aren't real witches, 'course! Just fake stuff. But they do celebrations at summer solstice, shit like that."
Sam looked at Dean, raised an eyebrow. Dean made a face and shrugged.
"So...out of curiosity...y'know where we could find any of these ladies?" Sam asked.
The kid shrugged. "Eh. They go to that class in the morning three days a week, sometimes stop in here. Dunno where they live, sorry. Oh! I do know Jessie's last name, might help you find her, she's Jessie Barnes."
Sam made a note of the name. They thanked the kid for the information, Dean bought some Doritos and dip, and they headed back to the car.
Dean ripped open the bag, started eating. "Real chatty type, wasn't he?" he said, mouth full.
"Hmmm? Yeah." Sam was googling Jessie Barnes, and not really listening. He found her address, loaded it into the mapping app. He looked up. "So this Jessie Barnes lives fairly close." He peered out the window. "Sun's setting. Want to go now, or hit a motel, go tomorrow?"
Dean started the car. "Let's do it now. There's shitloads of cheap motels in the city, no need to worry about not getting a room. Navigate, dude."
Their first attempt, using the GPS directions, landed them in front of a dilapidated old gate with a rusted padlock holding it shut. The dirt road beyond was barely even two dusty tracks winding through yard high grass and weeds. Dean stared at it in the twilight, hands resting on the steering wheel. He finally said, "Dude. I don't think anyone lives here."
Sam loaded up a different mapping app, zoomed in. "Actually, this 'road' is supposed to go through..." He put the "road" in air quotes. "But. I think I've got the real way to get there. Turn around, head back to the main road."
By the time they found the right place, twilight was fading and it was getting dark. Sam had to open the ranch-style metal gate to let them through. Dean pulled the Impala slowly up the drive, peering at the tidy little house, with its riot of flowers lining the pathway, the herb bundles hanging on the porch railing, the Tibetan prayer flags draped over the doorway, and said, "Looks like no-one's home."
Sam looked at him. "Wait?"
Dean folded his lips, ran a hand through his hair, nodded. "Yeah. Damn. Did I say I hate witches? Let's get this over with."
He pulled the car around the side of the house, by a shed, where it would be somewhat unobtrusive. They got out, climbed the steps to the porch, and waited in the dim light by the front door.
An hour later, they were still waiting. There was an owl hooting nearby, and it sounded eerie-especially given that they were waiting to corner a witch. Sam stirred impatiently, started to say something, and Dean held up a warning hand.
"Shhh!" he said softly. "I hear something."
A vehicle was coming up the drive, gravel popping under the tires. When it got closer, they could see it was an older pickup. Celtic music poured out, and the person driving was singing along.
"Candles and lanterns are dancing and prancing a waltz...on All Souls Night..." The driver turned the car off. Sam and Dean both tensed, waiting. The driver rummaged around in the cab of the truck, then slowly got out and stood by the door.
"Damn!" Sam hissed quietly. "Dean! She's got a gun!"
She called out, in a mellow alto voice, "Howdy, boys!"
They both slowly stood up.
"Now, you boys gonna tell me what you're doin' hangin' around my porch and not respondin' politely when I call out?" She cocked the shotgun, pointed it at them.
Dean raised his hands. "Whoa. Whoa. Ms. Barnes?"
"Yeah, that's me. Who're you boys?" She kept the gun aimed their way.
"We just want to talk with you," he said.
She snorted. "I've got a phone, y'know. Call, leave a message. Ask politely. You don't just show up, hang around someone's front door in the dark."
Sam shifted, pulled out the hex bag, tossed it at her. "Is this yours?" he asked in a hard voice.
She shifted the gun quickly, caught the object in one hand, looked down at it in the dim light, tossed it back. "Ain't mine. That's Martha's."
Sam squinted at her suspiciously. "How can you tell? You barely looked at it."
She snorted again. "Boy. I know when it's my work and I know when it ain't. Felt like Martha Grining."
Sam and Dean exchanged looks. "This Martha Grining...know where we can find her?" Dean called out. Not that he believed her, but it would be handy to know. Maybe they were all working together.
She lowered the shotgun and walked up the pathway. "You gonna show up at her house, hang around in the dark like thieves? She's a friend of mine, I ain't gonna send you two to her unless you tell me what this is all about."
They moved back as she climbed the steps. She lifted the shotgun barrel again. "Now. Why don't y'all have a seat and talk?" She gestured to the wickerwork porch seats behind them with the shotgun.
They looked back, then backed up and sat down on the chairs. She flipped on more lights, eyed them suspiciously.
She was short and wiry. Her hair was dark, but going gunmetal grey, bound in a long braid wrapped with leather. Two long crystals dangled from the end of the leather cording. She wore jeans, cowboy boots, and a crinkled cotton peasant blouse with embroidery on the yoke. Sam recognized some of the symbols in the embroidery: the design wasn't random. A bunch of health and happiness sigils, interspersed with the moon in different phases. Definitely witchy, he thought.
She uncocked the gun, emptied out the shell, laid it down by a chair, sat down, crossed her legs. She tossed the shell in her hand. "Just lettin' y'all know I can load and aim that shotgun mighty damn fast. So don't get frisky. I can see you're all wound up, ready to pounce. Whyn't you relax and tell me what's up?"
They looked at each other again. Sam shrugged. Dean looked at her, ran his hand over his chin, and said, "I'm Dean Winchester; this is my brother Sam." Sam dipped his head at her, she politely nodded back. "There've been some suspicious deaths lately that we're looking into. We found that-" he nodded to the hex bag in Sam's hands, "-tucked away in Joe Farmer's office. Where he died. Unpleasantly."
Really unpleasantly, Dean thought.
She fidgeted with her braid. "Don't know a Joe Farmer," she said, frowning.
Sam squinted at her. "He's a partner of Alec Chavez..."
She drew in a breath. "Ahhhh!"
"You know him?" Dean asked, leaning forward.
"Alec Chavez is a sleazy, slimy, good-for-nothing bastard," Barnes answered promptly, acid dripping in her voice.
"He's dead, too. And we found another hex bag where he died."
"Good riddance," she snorted. "Couldn't happen to a better guy."
Dean narrowed his eyes. "Now why is that, Ms. Barnes?"
She settled back, began talking. The story about Alex Chavez inheriting his dad's ranch. Him deciding to split it up, develop it, sell it. She was definitely a talker.
"...Now, Bobbie Jo Bass-" Dean shot a look at Sam, who shifted impatiently. This was maybe new stuff. He gestured, down low, for Sam to cool it.
Barnes glared at Sam. "You settle down, there, boy. Let me tell the tale." He bit his lip, looked down, made an apologetic sound. "That's better. Anyway. Bobbi Jo, she's a sweetie. Single mom. Rented ten acres of pasturage for her horses from Old Man Chavez. Ran four, five horses. She'n her kids loved those horses. So one day, she goes down to stock 'em, ride 'em, and there's this guy in a suit, tells her she has a day to get the horses off his property, and if they weren't gone in a day, he'd shoot 'em all."
Dean and Sam jerked at that. "What the hell?!" Dean commented. Jesus. He didn't know stuff like that still happened these days. Shoot someone's horses?! That was just...just...shitty.
She nodded grimly. "Yeah. Now, I don't know if you boys know, but it's mighty damn hard to find a place for five horses in one day..."
"I'll bet," muttered Sam.
"So. Anyway. Bobbi Jo shows up the next day, and all her horses are dead. And the guy in the suit, he's there with a shotgun. An' he just laughs at her, tells her to git off the property, points the gun at her. Alex was there, too. He laughed, too. Nasty sons of bitches. Bobbie Jo and her kids were...well, they weren't happy. I was at the bakery in Cedar Springs that afternoon, and she told a bunch of us what'd happened. Damn shame. Now, my friends and me, we're all for returning actions threefold. So whatever happened to those bastards is what I'd call justice."
She stopped talking for a bit.
"Martha's a bit-what you might call hasty," Barnes finally said. "I was gettin' ready with some curses, myself, but I wanted to think about it, take my time, figure out the best kinda curse. Was thinkin', as I drove home tonight, that the best thing would be to make 'em lose all their money, every last red cent. Have the Feds take the ranch for some sort of back taxes or somethin'..."
Sam leaned forward, rested his arms on his thighs. "I can see why people would want to do something...but surely this Bobbi Jo could have these jokers arrested, sue them-you can't just go around killing people like it's the old West!" Dean nodded in agreement.
"Yeah, well, like I said...Matha's a bit hasty. Acts before she thinks, y'know? Besides. Bobbi Jo ain't rich. Hell, none of us are! Alex Chavez would have had her wrapped up in lawyers and drained of every last penny before you'd know it. Wouldn't give a damn that he was ruining people's lives."
She leaned back, looked at them. "So that's the story. Now. Y'can go after Martha, sure. But, y'know what? You do that, and you'll have a buncha us goin' after you. Just sayin'."
Dean narrowed his eyes at her. "That sounds like a threat, Ms. Barnes." He didn't like people who made threats.
She nodded and smiled. "Yup. That's just what it is. There's a few of us witches around here. We mostly do helpin' charms...call the rain when it's dry, send it away when it's too damn wet, keep the cattle away from locoweed and bad grasses, good luck for pregnant women, that kinda thing. We keep to ourselves and don't bother people. And they don't bother us. And you can bet that Jorge down the road, or Dan Jenkins in Cedar Springs, or Dr. Bird at the animal clinic-if they knew what Martha had done-well. They'd just nod, say 'Serves those bastards right,' and go about their business. So why'n't you boys do the same?"
Dean looked at her narrowly, compressed his lips. Sam laid a hand on his arm, said, "Dean?", and jerked his head toward the other end of the porch. Dean stood up reluctantly, keeping his eyes on her, then walked with Sam to the darkness pooled over there.
"Dean. If ever anyone deserved it...these guys shot that woman's horses! For no damned reason. And threatened to shoot her, too!" Sam's voice was passionate.
"Dude. I don't like it, either. Pretty shitty guys all around. But you just don't go around killing people!"
Sam was quiet for a moment. Then: "Dean. We go around killing people."
Dean ground his teeth. "We go around killing monsters. And witches. And vampires. And demons and djinns and other things that go bump in the night. She's a witch. This Martha's a witch, who killed two people! If someone's doing bad things, like this Chavez guy, you take him to court! You don't just kill him!"
Sam folded his lips mulishly, his nostrils flaring a bit. Dean knew that look. "Dean! You heard her! Small town folk, no money, up against a rancher with lots of dough! He'd have bought his way out of anything they tried against him! What were they supposed to do?!"
Dean glared at him. "I kinda liked Barnes' idea, myself." He added, stubbornly, "You don't kill the dudes!"
Sam threw his hands up. "Call it a crime of passion! These aren't the kind of witches we're used to dealing with! For God's sake, they go to Jazzercise classes together!"
Dean folded his arms. "So that's it? 'Cause they're nice ladies who go to Jazzercise, we should let them go?"
Sam growled wordlessly.
Dean threw up his arms, too. "Fine. Whatever. We'll let them walk, dammit! Satisfy you?!"
Sam growled again. "Yes," he snapped.
"Okay, then!" Dean barely kept himself from stomping across the porch, back to Jessie Barnes. Sam just made him so mad, sometimes, like nobody else in the world could.
She turned to look at them as they stood by the door. "Well? What's the verdict, boys?"
Dean stepped forward. "Sam here thinks we should leave you and Martha and...the others...alone. Now, I'm not one who likes to let people kill other people without doing something about it. And I really, really don't like witches. But Sam says you and your pals aren't the type to do that without good reason." He stopped, clenched his teeth, then let out a sigh. "So we're gonna leave you all alone."
He and Sam turned to go. Then Dean stopped, turned back to her, raised a warning finger. "But if we ever hear of something like this happening again around here...we'll be back."
She nodded. "Fair 'nough. Good to meetcha, boys. You take care, now. And stop for the green chile cheeseburgers at The Holler, in Madrid. They're damn good."
Food? Good food? Dean raised his eyebrows. "Green chile cheeseburgers? Awesome! Where's this Madrid place?"
She snorted a small laugh. "Up 14, about twenty minutes drive. Don't go speeding in Madrid, the sheriff's deputies get bored, and the speed limit is 20 miles an hour there."
He tipped his non-existent hat to her. "We'll be careful, ma'am-Jessie," he said. They went down the steps, turned right toward the shed, and got back into the Impala. They backed up, drove around her truck, and then sped up her drive to the road.
It was quiet in the car for a while. Dean was still angry, Sam was staring out the window into the dark. Finally, Sam turned to Dean and said, "Dude. Thanks."
"Yeah, yeah. You and your 'monsters are people, too' ethics. We should have gone to visit that Grining woman, seen what she was like. She might have been totally different."
"Yeah. Maybe. Still, thanks."
They were nearing Madrid, and a flashing sign shouted "SLOW DOWN! 20 MPH!" Dean braked quickly, then crept through the town, finally saw "The Holler". "Enough of the bro moment. Let's eat."
They climbed out and headed in to the restaurant.