A/N: Alright, so this is set in early season 5. Ish. I may play around with things a bit, we'll see how it goes. Also, I'm not sure if there is a town called Morningside in Montana. There is in the province I'm from (I'm Canadian) and I fell in love with the name some time ago.

"So fill me in on the details?" Dean's eyes watched the road, trying to keep them in focus. It was amazing what a fourteen hour driving day did to a person, and not the good sort of amazing either. He blinked and did his best to stifle a yawn.

Beside him, his brother dug around his seat for his flashlight. "Sure, just a sec." There was a click, and suddenly the interior car wasn't quite so dark. "Town of Morningside, Montana. Population is roughly two thousand people."

"Sounds charming."

"Yeah, well it's not every thirty years or so in May. A person goes missing every day of the month. Sometimes the bodies are recovered, sometimes…"

"They're never seen again," Dean surmised with a nod. "You thinking Wendigo?"

Sam shrugged. "It's possible I guess, there's enough forest around."

"But…"

"Well, Wendigos are usually more predictable when it comes to their hunting," Sam replied, leafing through the papers on his lap.

"What, a specific month's not predictable enough for you?"

"They usually have a set amount of years in between hunts. Twenty years, twenty one years, twenty two years, and so on. This thing… I dunno man, it seems pretty random. One attack was twenty seven years after the previous attack, which had happened thirty two years after the attack before that. Besides, have you ever heard of a Wendigo leaving bodies out in the open?" He looked to his older brother whose expression was answer enough. He shrugged. "Honestly, it could be anything at this point."

"So whatever it is is snatching thirty one people every thirty some years. My question is why do people still live in this freakin' town?" Dean wondered aloud.

"That's the thing, it doesn't take just townsfolk," Sam explained. "It takes people from the surrounding area as well."

"So if you're out for a midnight stroll in the forest…"

"Or just driving through, yup. You're in danger. That's why no one's really noticed this; if a tourist drives through the town and doesn't come back, who in the town would notice?" Dean gave a slight nod, admitting this was true. "And a whole new generation has time to grow up during the quiet years. It's possible no one's really put this together yet."

"No one except Bobby," Dean answered, smirk tugging at his mouth. He sighed and shifted in his seat. "What're we doin', Sammy?"

"We're… hunting?"

"That's not what I mean. We've got both angels and demons on our tails and the whole damn world is ending, and we're out hunting like nothin's going on?" A bitter laugh touched his last words.

"The angels can't find us."

"No, but the demons sure can! What if this is a trap?"

"Pretty elaborate trap that would have been in the making for the past two hundred years at least." Dean didn't answer this, but kept his eyes fixated on the road. Sam shook his head. "Look, I know the situation's bad, and it's my fault…"

"Sam."

"No, just let me finish. It's bad, okay, I know that. But it's going to get worse. There's nothing we can do about it, not yet anyways. And we can't do it unless we can work together. Work together properly. This'll be good for us to work on that, and save a few people before everything hits." He stared intently at his brother. "What do you say?"

"Yeah, okay," the elder replied gruffly, and the younger wasn't sure he meant it. "You're right," Dean agreed before clearing his throat. "So," he changed the subject, "small town in the middle of nowhere. What do you think the chances are of the motel not being crummy?"

Sam laughed. "Not very good, I'd say."

Dean grunted and nodded. "Yeah, thought as much."

"Lee Williams?" Sam asked with a grin as his brother unlocked the door to their room.

"What about it?" Dean asked in reply, flicking on the light and surveying the room. "Jeeze, this is right out of the 70's."

"Small town, motel's probably not their priority," Sam replied, following his brother in. "It's just, that's the most normal sounding name I think I've ever heard you use."

The elder shrugged. "I needed something to put down, I was in a hurry so I went for generic. Sue me." He dropped down wearily to the bed. The mattress squealed back. "I think this might be from the 70s yet too."

Sam gave his bed a wary look.

Dean unlaced his boots, exhaustion catching up with him. "We'll start diggin' first thing. It's what, the third?"

"Fourth now," Sam corrected, gesturing to the clock. 2:00AM. "I've got the names of the first victim's family and…"

"Sammy," Dean cut in, holding up his hand. "Morning."

Sam glanced down at the papers he held and the bag slung over his shoulder. "Right. Yeah."

"And we're stopping for breakfast first."

A half-hearted smile tugged at Sam's lips. "Yeah, okay."

After slipping a gun under his pillow, Dean lay back against the surprisingly soft surface and was fast asleep before Sam had taken his coat off.

"Right, so who was the first one taken?" Dean asked between bites.

"Clara White," Sam answered, passing a newspaper clipping across the table to his brother. "Eighteen years old." Dean looked down at the picture smiling back; pretty blonde girl. Maybe it made him shallow – hell, he knew it did – but he hated it when they were young and pretty. Just didn't seem right. "She was headed home from a friend's house after midnight of April 30th, or…"

"May first," Dean finished, and Sam nodded. "She looks a bit like Jo."

"Yeah, I thought so too."

"So what. She just never made it home?"

Sam picked up his coffee mug. "Seems that way. No witnesses."

"What about traffic cameras?"

Sam raised an eyebrow. "Dean, we're in a town with a population of two thousand."

"Right. No traffic cameras. Great," he shoved a forkful of sausage into his mouth and shook his head. "Why do these things always happen in the middle of freakin' nowhere?"

From the counter, the waitress gave him a dirty look. Dean flashed her a quick smile before ducking his head away.

"I think because they're in the middle of nowhere. If it were somewhere like New York, it'd be a big deal. International media coverage. Where as here," he cast his eyes around the smoky diner and shrugged. "No one really cares."

"Right. Who gives a crap about some dingy little hick town?" The people who lived there, apparently. Dean pretended not to notice the looks he was getting as he took a drink of his coffee. "So this girl's family."

"She lived with her mother, Amy, couldn't find anything about extended family, and her father died six years ago," Sam explained. "Maybe her behavior changed in the last few weeks, or maybe we'll find something to link her to the other victims."

"Who're they?"

Sam pursed his lips. "I don't know yet. Not townsfolk."

"Great. Well, gotta start somewhere I guess."

"This place looks nice," Dean commented, walking up the pathway to the white porch of the house. It was a quaint little building, obviously a few decades old. Vines climbed their way to the roof along the sides, but it somehow held a quiet charm.

"Since when are you interested in real estate?" Sam asked back.

"I'm not!" Dean replied defensively, straightening his tie. "I'm just sayin', it's a nice place. Compared to the rest of the town."

Sam had to agree with that. Something about the town made him uneasy, but he couldn't quite put his finger on what exactly it was. Instead, he pushed the thought from his mind and pushed the doorbell.

"Mrs. White?" Sam called out after they had waited a moment and were met with silence from inside the home.

"Mrs. White, FBI," Dean shouted, but again the brothers were met with silence.

Dean reached into his pocket for his lock picks, but his brother grabbed the doorknob and turned it. The door opened without protest.

"Small towns," Sam said with a shake of his head. "No one locks their doors."

"They should really start," Dean replied, pulling out his gun.

"No kidding." He gestured with his own gun at the table. "She didn't leave the house. Not willingly." A women's purse sat on top, and a quick look in revealed a wallet, and car keys.

A quick scope of the house revealed something much more grim.

"Are those… claw marks?" Dean asked as his younger brother knelt down by the doorframe, studying the markings.

"Yeah, I'd say so," Sam agreed, "but they're not demonic. Dean, I think these were made by human nails."

"She was dragged out the back door, but damned if she didn't try to fight it every step of the way."

Sam looked up at him. "I think we've found another victim."