Dean refused to tell Sam what had bothered him so much about their latest case. Seeing the old cabin after so many years had been a shock...more so because it had changed so little. Copper wind chimes around every window and door. Weathered logs stuffed with moss and other natural insulation. Magical talismans of protection painted or carved into the outer walls-visible only once you get closer to the house. But most telling of all is the cobalt glass jar filled with white sand and bits of shells half-buried by the front door.
"The witches' bottle is among the most powerful forms of protection we have. On first inspection it just looks like a bunch of white sand and pieces of broken shells. But we Irish witches are not without a sense of humor. I have them in layers, and in between the layers is my urine and menstrual blood. We imagine the contents being dumped on our enemies' heads...and it makes us laugh."
Dean turned his bright green gaze to her in skepticism, gauging her face for any signs of lying. A moment later, he wrinkled his nose and responded with one word. "Ew." She smiled at his response, and nodded in agreement. "I agree, it is crude-but effective. Sometimes laughter is the only weapon we have. And we use it to our fullest advantage. You know something about that."
Dean, barely 15 years old, swiveled his mature-beyond-their-years gaze to the woman, who he suddenly realized was far younger than he originally thought. She looked like she was about the same age as his mother would have been, if she'd lived. He shifted his eyes to the wall.
"Thank you for...earlier."
"I won't contact the authorities...this time. You be careful, you hear me?"
Dean started at the touch on his arm. Sam was looking at him with those worried puppy eyes.
"You okay, Dean?"
"Yeah-why wouldn't I be?" Sam opened his mouth to respond. Thankfully, they were interrupted by the front door creaking open. Dean blinked several times in succession. The woman in the doorway was an exact twin of the woman who lived here when he was 15 years old. Suddenly 3 cats bolted from between her legs and began meowing and rubbing against their legs. The woman smiled, reminding Dean of a cat who'd just eaten the canary. He saw her gaze glance down at his hand, the ring of the Brotherhood gleaming in the sunlight. Damn. Dean slid his hand in his pocket. This woman was far more observant than most.
