ONE
When their most recent hunts turned-up no viable suspects, clues or anything even remotely helpful to work from, Sam and Dean Winchester turned to 'Bon Appétit' for solstice. It wasn't their first choice in venue, usually they ate at less fancy diners or even grabbed a few chicken strips at a bar counter, but, for now, it would do.
Dean chowed down on a plate of ribs, marinated in some kind of red sauce that had stained both Dean's face and his nice white shirt. Thankfully, Sam thought, he had his brown leather jacket to cover up the stain when they left. Sam had a much healthier salad. He'd chosen it, not because he'd wanted a salad, but because most of the menu was in French and he'd had no idea what half of the meals were.
The only good thing about the place, they agreed, was that the waitress who was serving them, Claire, was the hottest thing since global warming and, as an added plus, she spoke English. She'd been by a few times to check on them and make sure everything was fine, giving the brothers ample chances to check her out and make up reasons to get her number.
Dean was beyond surprised that Sam was actively participating in the conversation. He usually wasn't the type to share his tastes with his brother and joke around about getting numbers, but tonight, he was doing it.
Sam and Dean both swallowed their meals hastily to clear their mouths as blonde haired, green eyed Claire made her fifth round to their table that evening. She smiled pleasantly and checked their plates before speaking.
"You two okay over here?"
"We're very okay, thanks," Dean smiled back, kicking Sam under the table just for fun.
Sam nudged back, but looked up to smile at her too as if they weren't playing footsie under the table.
"This window isn't bothering you?" Claire gestured towards the window behind their table; on the other side of which there was the parking lot, but nothing could be seen outside because it was so dark.
Sam and Dean shook their pretty heads in unison.
"That's funny. Usually clients who sit here complain about a breeze, but I guess you're fine."
Dean chuckled, "Guys like us don't feel breezes; it's a manly thing."
Claire nodded in understanding to the statement, but she was staring absently at the salt shaker on their table, as if her thoughts were somewhere else. Sam didn't blame her, Dean's awkward chitchat was just enough to set the poor girl to sleep. He smirked, but Dean cast a shrug in Sam's direction as Claire continued to stare and become unresponsive.
"Was it something I said?" Dean whispered across the table, but before Sam could respond in any way, Claire snapped back to attention.
She chuckled, "Oh, it's not you. That salt shaker is just really out of proportion with everything else on the table. It should be a little to the left, don't you think? I hate it when stuff gets moved around."
Dean raised an eyebrow, "My fault. I like salt on my potatoes."
Claire chuckled again, "Not a problem. I'll fix it."
With that she turned and walked away, her hips swaying in the neat black pencil skirt she was wearing and Sam admired the walk as Dean mulled over the awkward scene that had just happened in his head.
"So what are the chances of claiming her number before her shift is up, you think?" Sam asked finally, turning back towards his brother. He pushed his salad off to the side; he wasn't that fond of eggs in with his lettuce and tomatoes anyway. That was when he noticed the wary expression on Dean's face.
"What?"
"That was weird, wasn't it?"
"What was weird?"
Dean gestured to where Claire had disappeared behind the 'Employees Only' door, "Her. Claire. That conversation that we just had."
Sam shook his head, "You're just bummed she didn't ask you for your number first."
"Enough about numbers, we've only got five minutes until she's out of here anyway, but what about that obsession with the salt?"
"The salt shakers, if I remember correctly," Sam leaned just a little over the table, "What's up with you? A second ago you were normal."
"A few minutes ago so was she, or was I just imagining her interest in coming over to check on our table?"
"You didn't imagine that, she came over five times. I counted."
"That's more than usual, right?" Dean seemed to be counting his fingers for some reason.
"More than would usually be polite if we were on a date or something. What are you getting at?"
"She didn't even fix the salt shaker after she said she-" Dean looked at the salt shaker with sudden astonishment. "Wait a second – this can't be right."
"What can't be right?" Sam asked, suddenly finding Dean's distress about the whole situation very amusing.
"The salt shaker was on the right last time I looked. I swear, two minutes ago, before she came, the shaker was on the right and now it's on the left!"
"You're exaggerating,"
"No, I'm not. Sam, you and I have seen enough supernatural things in our lives to notice if a salt shaker suddenly moved from one side of the table to the other. It's just not natural."
"Neither is this entire restaurant, the menu is in French, but that didn't stop us-"
"Exactly, something's going on here. I felt it the moment we met that girl."
"Claire?"
"Yes, there's something weird about her."
Sam rolled his eyes, "Oh boy, here we go."
Sam had known his brother long enough to know that when a hunt wasn't going the way Dean wanted it to and they couldn't find any of the evidence or information they needed, he'd use whatever coincidence or 'weird' experience to try and solve the case that way. Suddenly every leaf on the ground and waitress in a random restaurant they'd chosen was involved.
"Seriously, Sam. Think about it. We don't usually come in restaurants like this, do we? It had to be some sort of magic that brought us here, of all places."
"Magic?"
"Don't poo on magic, you know as well as I do that there are some sickos out there that believe in the supernatural as much as we do."
"So we're the reason behind all the strange things going on here? The pastor's death and the girl and boy dead in the park?" Sam changed his mind about the salad and picked a white piece of lettuce out to chew on while Dean explained.
"No, Sam, not us," Dean looked at his little brother like he had suddenly grown a second head, "witches."
"Witches are behind this?"
"Yes."
"And you're coming to this conclusion because-?"
"Because of the upside-down triangle symbol with a line through it carved on the victims foreheads, the sudden increase in rich people living on the outskirts of this town and -"
"The salt shaker moving from the left of the table to the right," Sam finished in a sceptical tone, although he tried to keep it out.
"The right to the left, Sammy, keep up," Dean looked annoyed, so Sam dropped the attitude.
"Alright, so you think that, somehow, Claire's a witch."
"Anyone could be a witch," Dean glanced warily around the restaurant, scanning every person for any signs of someone eavesdropping on their conversation, or maybe a green face or a conical black hat atop of someone's head.
Sam sighed and leaned back in his seat, "You're right on one account, we never considered witches and it does sound like it could be-"
"An exact match," Dean was gathering his coat from the seat beside him and pulling it on over his sauce-stained shirt.
"Where are you going?" Sam grabbed his own light brown jacket, but only clutched it in his hands before he knew what was going on.
"We're going to follow Claire," Dean said as if it were the most obvious thing they could do this rainy and pitch-black Thursday night. It wasn't as if they needed to get any sleep or anything.
Sam shook his head to himself. The only way to get Dean off this hunch of his was to let him ride it out. What harm would it do? Follow Claire back to her house, watch her until they were sure that nothing witchy was going on and then Dean realize that he was being paranoid and drawing lines where there weren't any and all would be back to normal. Or as normal as things could be for the Winchesters.
Leaving fifty dollars on the table, and pouting over the large sum of money he'd just spent on food (possibly the largest in his life in one sitting), Sam followed his brother outside into the drizzling rain. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dark, but Dean seemed to have his night vision turned on because he was making a quick beeline for the Impala without a pause.
In the corner of his eye, Sam caught a glimpse of movement to his left. He turned quickly and saw, in the distance, the side door of the restaurant open up and Claire step out. She was out of her red and black restaurant uniform, and was now wearing casual jeans and a pink sweater, which she pulled tightly around herself as she ran to a blue Volvo.
A Volvo, huh? Sam furrowed his brow thoughtfully. Maybe she was a part of this.
"Sam! What are you waiting for?" Dean called from the open window of the Impala's driver's seat, "Get a move on, we're going to lose her!"
She was already backing out of her parking space and taking off down a dark back alley away from the restaurant when Sam finally took the front passenger's seat and had barely shut the door before Dean stepped on the gas after her.
"So it's your professional opinion that these witches are ritually sacrificing people to get rich?" Sam clarified, once he'd securely done up his seat belt.
Dean was leaned forward, chest to the steering wheel. Sam guessed it was because he was straining to see out the window past the rain and without the head lights. The lights would just give them away, if the sound of Dean's grumbling didn't.
"What?"
"What? Nothing," Dean answered back, and then Sam's previous statement sunk in, "We've seen some pretty sketchy spells before. Why not a ritual sacrifice to keep rich? We've seen worse and we know there are people out there who'll do anything for money." He shuddered, probably remembering their special friend, Bella.
Sam wanted to shudder too, but he was too busy gripping the dashboard with white knuckles as the car bounced on the uneven ground. Was it just him or were the buildings on either side of the narrow alley closing in on them?
"You don't believe me?" Dean said and Sam shook his head vigorously.
"No, I believe you. It sounds fine, I mean not the whole ritual sacrifice thing, but it sounds plausible. It's just your driving I'm worried about right now. You can't go one a hundred and twenty miles an hour down an remarkably narrow alley?"
Dean caught the sarcastic note in that statement and eased up on the gas pedal immediately. Claire wasn't that far ahead of them now anyway. Dean gave his brother a sheepish glance, but Sam wasn't going to hold it over him.
They fell silent together and followed the Volvo, out of the alley and down the dark streets of the small town, until Claire parked it, near the curb, in front of a blue paneled house with two expensive cars already taking up the driveway. Sam suspected that there was probably another fancy car holed up inside the garage, but it was closed for now, so he couldn't be sure.
Dean hung back a few feet as Claire exited the car and collected her purse and uniform in her hands before locking it behind her. In her black heels, she clicked her way quickly up the stone walkway to the front door of the blue house. Dean drove closer and saw another woman, also blonde, answer the door and let Claire in, closing the door behind them.
"They look normal enough," Sam said, eyeing the closed door.
Dean pulled up behind Claire's car and parked the Impala there, "So do they all."
"How do you plan on finding out if she's a witch or not? She's obviously got company."
"Well, Sammy," Dean swung the car door open with a smile, "There's only one way to find out."
With that, he left the car, shut the door quietly behind him and carefully started creeping up the grass to the blue house, the silver gun in his belt strap gleaming in the moonlight.