The facts were these. When Dean Winchester first saw the love of his life, he was thirty-three years, four months, two days, nine hours, and twenty-one minutes old. He froze in the middle of the sidewalk, making his younger brother Sam run into his back.
"What the hell, Dean?" Sam demanded, glaring daggers at his brother.
He grew even more irritated when he saw that Dean clearly wasn't paying him any attention. Dean couldn't be bothered to pay attention to anything, at that point. He stared straight ahead, a ridiculous, dopey, slack-jawed look decorating his face. His eyes had even glazed over. Sam followed his gaze, expecting to see a busty blonde or something equally crude and typically Dean.
When his gaze landed on what had Dean so fixated, his eyes widened.
"Dude," Dean whined. He started forward then, shuffling toward the source of his sudden ecstasy like a man under a spell.
"Dean! Stop! We're in the middle of a case, dude. We have research to do!" Sam said, following his older brother. They were both wearing their suits, as they were supposed to be heading to interview a few of the victims' closest relations under their typical FBI pretense.
"We can research and eat pie at the same time," Dean reasoned, pointing at the pie shaped building at the end of the street. "Sammy, its a building in the shape of pie. You know there's no freaking way you're stopping me from going in there."
"Yeah," Sam sighed, slumping in defeat, "I know."
Dean paused at the entrance, looking over the restaurant's beautiful exterior. The Pie Hole. It looked friendly inside, and when he opened the door, he was assaulted by the smell of fruit and pastry weaving together in a delicious, tantalizing wave. His green eyes fluttered shut, and he let the smell engulf him.
"Seriously, man," Sam laughed, "You look like you just met the love of your life."
"I have, Sammy. I have," Dean sighed dreamily. He stalked up to the counter, flashing the adorable, perky, and ridiculously tiny blonde waitress behind the counter his most charming smile.
"Welcome to the Pie Hole, what can I do for ya?" she asked, grinning this huge grin that made the Pie Hole even more perfect, in Dean's opinion.
"I don't even know where to begin. What would you say is your best pie?" Dean asked, eyes roving over the place—and the waitress, Sam noticed with a smirk—hungrily.
"Well," she drew the word out, "My pie of the day is pecan! Every day I pick one pie and I concentrate all my love on it and recommend it to all of our customers," she explained, "and by the end of the day, I've sold more of that pie than any other. But all of our pie will just leave you absolutely breathless, and that is a guarantee."
"Pecan sounds perfect," Dean purred, giving the waitress a wink.
"I'll just have apple, thanks. And a coffee," Sam sighed, "Dean, I'll be at the booth over there—join me when you're, uh…finished here."
"Yes, sir," Dean said, rolling his eyes and flashing an apologetic smile at the waitress.
.
.
Emerson Cod was sitting at his usual booth, staring out the Pie Hole's round window and thinking about his pop-up book, Lil' Gumshoe, when an unnaturally tall man in a cheap suit with a flowing brown mane sat in the booth adjacent to his.
He narrowed his eyes at the back of the man's head. Everything about him reeked of Federal Agent, and if there was one thing Emerson Cod could not stand—next to annoying humans, pro bono cases, and the word moist—it was Federal Agents. They were bad for business and annoying to boot. He looked down at his three plum pie with a frown, knowing he wouldn't be able to properly enjoy it with a Federal Agent blocking his view.
"Okay, so here's the case," the moose-like man began when his partner joined him. Bow legs nodded at Moose to continue. "Three…mysterious deaths in the past two weeks, all here in the area."
"Mysterious how?"
"I was getting to that. According to the preliminary reports, they all committed suicide, right? But all three of them were found with blood coming out of their ears-"
Bow Legs scrunched up his nose in distaste.
"—and their brains sort of…deteriorated. And apparently the family and friends of all three vics say there's no reason any of them should have committed suicide."
"Casey, the first vic, is a theatre major. She apparently just got a big role in some local play."
"Right. Not likely to kill herself after getting her dream role," Bow Legs smirked. "And the other two?"
"Richardson owned a successful dinner-and-a-show night club thing, and Leia, the third vic, was his star singer."
"At the same club?"
"Yeah, but I don't see any connection Casey has to the club."
"It's a start," Bow Legs shrugged. "We'll just have to look harder. And by 'we' I mean 'you.'"
"And what will you be doing?" Moose asked skeptically.
"If things go according to plan, I'll be eating pie and taking the waitress out for a drink."
"Dude, she's like, half your size."
Bow Legs shrugged. "So you think we should go check this club out?"
"Yeah, I guess," Moose said, turning some papers over thoughtfully. "I want to get a look at the bodies of our vics first, though, and maybe talk to Casey's sister."
"No problem. So what are you thinking? Vengeful spirit?"
"Maybe."
"Man, I hope so. It's been too long since we had a good ol' salt-and-burn gig. I miss the simple times—no angels, no Crowley or Abbadon, just ganking some old-fashioned evil sons of bitches, you know?"
"Either way, this is better than the apocalypse."
His companion grunted his agreement. Moose turned to look at the counter and laughed at something.
"Bad news, Dean—it looks like your waitress is more interested in her co-worker over there than you."
Bow Legs—Dean, not that Emerson Cod really cared—pouted a bit, then shrugged. "At least I still get me some pie."
Emerson Cod didn't understand what they were talking about, and he didn't care. All he knew was that these feds were working his case. Casey's sister had hired him to find out who murdered her sister, convinced that she hadn't committed suicide. Emerson didn't particularly care if she had or not—the girl promised to pay him either way.
But if these feds solved the case before he did, then no money for Emerson Cod. And a money-less Emerson Cod was an unhappy Emerson Cod. He had to solve this case before the feds could. He needed Pie Boy and he needed him now.
He ran—well, walked faster than usual, Emerson Cod never runs if he can help it—to the counter where Ned was staring lovingly into Dead Girl's eyes (like usual).
"We have a problem," he grumbled.
"By we do you mean you?" Ned asked, "Because I don't see any problems. And I don't want to see any problems, so if you have a problem maybe you should take it and put it somewhere where I won't see it."
"What's the problem, Emerson?" Chuck laughed softly.
"Those two in the booth over there. Dumb and dumber. They're my problem. They're agents, and they're stomping their big feet all over my case."
"What do you want us to do about it?" Ned asked, glancing over to where the two men sat talking.
"Tonight. We're going to the morgue and you're finding out who killed these people and I'm getting my money before those two can even tell what's up. And you-" he pointed a finger at Ned, "—go over there and see what you can find out about them."
"I'm a pie maker, not a detective," Ned shot back, "and I'm not going to go interrogating my customers just because you want me to."
.
.
"Pecan and apple pie?" a lanky, dark-haired man in Chuck Taylors and an apron asked, approaching the Winchesters with two plates.
"Yeah," Dean grinned, sitting up straighter in his seat, "that's us."
"Olive—the waitress—will be right over with your coffee."
The second the man set the plate down on the table Dean dug in, and the sound he made was almost pornographic in its pleasure. The man's lips quirked up in a small smile.
"This is the greatest thing I've ever tasted," Dean moaned between large mouthfuls. "Oh my god. Sammy—eat it."
"Thanks," the pie man smiled, "Uh—sorry. I'm Ned. I run the Pie Hole and make all the pies myself. It's always good to know my work is appreciated," he did his small-quirky smile again and shifted nervously.
Sam raised an eyebrow at the man's behavior. He seemed perpetually nervous—a trait that set off red alerts in the seasoned hunter's mind.
"You are a god," Dean praised, looking at the Pie Maker in a whole new light. "No, seriously, man. I have had a lot of pie in my life—" Sam snorted "—and this seriously takes the cake." Dean's lips quirked up in a smirk. "You know what I mean."
"Yeah…I've never seen you guys in here before, so I thought I'd come over here and introduce myself personally. Are you new to town?"
"We're just passing through," Sam answered hesitantly, looking the pie maker up and down. There was something off about the guy…he seemed pretty earnest, and Sam instinctively wanted to trust him. Maybe that was the problem. "It was nice to meet you."
"Right. Well…I'll let you guys eat your pie in peace. If you need anything at all just let me know."
"I can tell you right now that I'm going to be needing another piece of this pie," Dean grinned.
.
.
"Alright, let's get this over with," Emerson said, pulling back the white sheet. On the cold metal slab was a young woman. Casey—the first victim. Her ears were puffy and swollen, but apart from that, she looked like she might just be sleeping. Nothing as gruesome as they usually saw.
Chuck and Ned both gave him exasperated looks. Ned started the timer on his watch, tapping the dead girl's arm. She shot up with a gasp.
"Oh!" she began with a gasp. Then she groaned and clutched at her head, "Wowie, do I have a headache. Where am I, exactly? And where is that music coming from?"
"Music?" Ned began, bewildered. "There's no music. And you're dead, by the way" he said apologetically with a small shrug. "Sorry. But we need to know what you can remember about your killer so we can catch him and bring him to justice," he let out in a rush.
"Now I remember," Casey said with a groan, "that explains why I have her godawful song stuck in my head. It was Angie. Angie killed me because I said I didn't think she was a very good singer. She made me listen to her singing over and over again until I could practically feel my brain rotting in my head."
"Who's Angie?" Chuck pushed gently.
"Angie was my best friend. She died a year ago."
"She died?" Emerson clarified, stepping closer.
Ned glanced down at his watch, up the girl, back down at his watch. Her minute was almost up.
"Yeah. The club fired her and she committed suicide. And then she came to my apartment the other day—"
"Sorry," Ned cringed, tapping the woman on the arm again. Ned felt the usual shock of electricity and the girl fell back onto the metal table.
"Well that was...odd. Even odder than usual," Chuck said.
"What the hell," a gruff voice came from behind them.
Ned, Emerson, and Chuck turned, finding themselves staring down the barrel of two guns. Guns held by the two very frightening looking federal agents from earlier.
Recognition flashed across their faces. "Why is it the good things in my life always go bad?" the shorter of the two asked his companion with a sigh. He turned to glare at the trio. "What the hell are you? Demons? Necromancers?"
Ned's mouth popped open in the shape of an O. "What?"
"He's the one bringing dead things to life," Emerson began, "I'm just a private detective."
Ned shot Emerson a glare. "And I'm just a pie maker. There's no bringing-the-dead-to-life going on here."
"And I'm just a—" Chuck began, then paused. "Actually, I don't really know what I am at this point." The taller of the agents trained his gun on her. "But it's nothing bad, I swear!" she hastened to add.
Ned stepped in front of her, acting much braver than he felt. "Wait. I can explain. Sort of. I touch dead things and they come back to life—I was born that way and I don't know why it happens, but it just sort of does so I use my ability to solve murders, so you see, I'm not really hurting anyone or throwing off the balance of the universe or anything because if someone's dead I always return them to being dead. And I'm really using these powers for good, if you think about it."
The two men blinked at him, utterly bewildered.
"Sammy," the shorter one growled.
Before he could say another word, Ned was being splashed in the face by some really cold water. He sputtered a bit, and the tall man splashed Chuck and Emerson as well. In one fluid movement, the taller of the agents grabbed and twisted Ned wrist, slicing into it neatly with a silver knife.
"They're not demons. And if he was a necromancer, he would have reacted to the silver," the tall one said, looking between Ned and his partner with furrowed brows.
"First ghosts, then demons, and now necromancers?" Emerson Cod demanded, looking at the Federal Agents like they'd just sprouted second heads, "Hell no. This is getting a little too crazy for me, thank you. I'm out."
"You just saw your friend kill someone with a touch and you don't believe in demons?"
"No, Bow Legs, I don't. I believe in one thing: money. What the Pie Maker does makes me money. And this situation looks like it's just going to make me dead or in jail, either way—I'm not getting any money."
The taller of the two agents lowered his gun, looking at Ned thoughtfully. "I don't think he's dangerous, Dean."
"I'm not! I get the feeling I'm pretty much the least dangerous person in the room right now, except for maybe Chuck. And I'm also getting the feeling that you're not really FBI agents, so maybe we can call it a draw and...go our separate ways?" Ned trailed off hopefully.
"You're not getting off the hook that easily." Dean still glared at the pie maker, but he lowered his gun. "That being said—I just might believe you. That's if you agree to tell me and my brother everything and if you do so over pie."