Picture this.

Salem's a special city in that it gladly opens the doors to anyone, anything, anytime. The streets are littered with family-run joints selling supposed witch paraphernalia. Trial reenactments and museums for tourists are bountiful—businesswomen conduct seances and night tours. New England's very own Lily Dale. Most, of course, are hoaxes. Commercial knock-offs that bear the name but couldn't hold a candle to the real deal. Most, of course, wouldn't know honest-to-God, straight-from-Hell, pure-blooded witchcraft if it killed them. It's a gimmick—using the old With Trials as a launching pad for credibility.

However, with places like that, word's going to get out. Genuine magic-bearers have worked and continue to work their craft there. Unfortunately (or uncannily fortunately, depending on outlook), the abundance of charlatan practice tends to overbear and drive them out, leaving them in search of a less occupied place to perform. Nonetheless, some stay. For a time.

A beautiful day New England—it's been unseasonably warm in Salem, Massachusetts. It's a Saturday, so the children are out and about, frolicking and enjoying the winter sun. Parents are tailing them, making small talk, wondering about the uncharacteristic weather patterns as of late. But, generally, everything's typical, save for one woman.

She's in her late twenties. She lies low, lives comfortably. She's the single parent of a son, age seven. She works an average job, full-time in the insurance industry. She's so exceptionally ordinary she makes vanilla have spice. As such, when her son pleaded her to take him to a séance at one of the many places that perform them, she obliged, but warned him not to take things too seriously. After all, ghosts are not real. She didn't need her son pedaling the same mantras the rest of the city did.

So they went, along with her son's older cousin, Abigail, who was in town visiting—to our woman's dismay, for Abigail had her head so wrapped around the paranormal she couldn't tell fact from fiction it seemed.

The psychic they chose, her name was Divya. She started off her ritual praising her audience for choosing a genuine medium rather than one of the countless frauds they could have gone to. She appreciated the enthusiasm for authenticity in a town so rife with imposters. By night's end, she'd performed what our focal woman could only believe was a ritual as preposterously false as anywhere else would have. And thus, she and the children under her guidance exited—the kids ecstatic, herself less than so.

"Calm down," she told the children as they arrived at her residence—an apartment in center city she kept bolted from the inside. "It's late. I want you two in bed by the time I'm finished bathing, okay?" The children, still excited about their night out, nodded and ran to her son's little bedroom to talk until they needed to pretend to be asleep.

She rolled her eyes, heading the opposite way towards the tiny bathroom. As she did so, she noticed a few lights beginning to flicker. Confused, as she'd replaced them just a few days ago, she tapped them to try and knock them back into life. "I need to upgrade," she sighed, rolling her eyes once the issue ceased. Pushing it to the back of her mind, she began to ready herself for her shower. However, as she was retrieving a towel, she heard the water begin to run in the tub, stopping her dead in her tracks. Slowly, cautiously, she closed the closet door to lay eyes on the water. It had only been running for a few seconds, but the bath was beginning to overflow. Stricken by panic, she dashed over, trying desperately to pull the plug.

It happened in a blur.

The second she knelt over the tub, a noose—made of wiring from the extension cord in the closet—dropped from the ceiling and strung her up dead.

The water drained itself without a wet spot in sight.

It takes all of two days for Sam and Dean to pick up the case.

14 January

"How long's it been since we've decapitated something, Sammy?" Dean asked, entering the center room of the bunker with a mug of coffee, his body cloaked in a robe and is hair disheveled.

Sam shrugged. "Couldn't say," he replied, folding his arms across his chest.

"I'll tell you—too damn long," Dean replied, pulling a chair and taking a seat across from his brother. He placed the cup down to his left and leaned over the table, propping his upper bodyweight against his elbows. "Too goddamn long," he reiterated, sliding his chair inwards, grabbing his mug, and leaning back.

"Hey, I hear you," Sam agreed. "But it's been pretty quiet out there, Dean. It happens every now and then. Sometimes there just isn't work to be done, you know?"

"Not for this long—and not in this line of work. Something's always stirring up trouble somewhere, Sam. Just gotta look hard enough," Dean took Sam's laptop, which was sitting open at the end of the table, and pulled up an article he had found while making his coffee. "Check this one out," he said, turning the computer around to face his brother.

Sam read over the story, skeptical. "Since when is an isolated suicide our kind of thing, Dean? You know people don't always kill themselves because of supernatural reasons, right? Sometimes people are just unsteady. It happens."

"Sure, I get that. But the kids' stories aren't lining up. Police think they're imagining things."

"Her son is seven, Dean."

"And her niece is fourteen."

"And your point? A fourteen-year-old kid is just as capable of exaggerating as a seven-year-old. And besides, neither of them are even witnesses. The report says they just found the body."

"Sam, I don't trust Salem, Massachusetts to be radio silent."

"You've never been to Salem, Dean."

"Yeah, I know. Don't you think that's strange? Basically the witchcraft capital of the country and we've never had reason to be there?"

"Sure, but most of those people are frauds. Doubt many people—if any—are pedaling genuine craft. Don't know what to tell you. Doesn't sound like our kind of gig."

"Come on, Sam. This woman's the third body down since November. Not to mention these sudden suicides have been a pretty regular thing there over the past few decades—maybe centuries, if we could trace it far enough. How does that not strike you as odd?"

"Because, like I said, people kill themselves for multiple reasons."

"Well, until you got a better place to be, I'll be packing my shit to go to Massachusetts." He finished his coffee and got up from his chair. He began to walk towards the kitchen to return the mug, but turned around after noticing his brother hadn't moved. "You coming or not?"

Sam rolled his eyes, but ultimately he followed. He was up to Dean's wild goose chase if it meant escaping the bunker—hell, the entirety of Kansas, really—for a little while. He always hated stalls in their work; they made life awful dull, sitting around the bunker waiting for something to strike. And besides, his brother wasn't delirious—he'd been doing this job for even more time than Sam himself, after all. He trusted his older brother's gut instinct to be able to determine if something was worth the drive. If Dean thought it was a case, especially when they hadn't had an honest-to-God case in weeks, then by all means they'd take it as a case unless proven otherwise, contemplation be damned.

Within the hour, they were in the car on their merry way to Massachusetts. And by the time they arrived, Sam would receive a more convincing reason to call it a case.

§§§§§

"We know this is a stressful time, Miss Stoughton," Sam said lowly, smoothly to their witness, the sister of the victim who brought them to town in the first place.

"Stressful?" she scoffed. "Doesn't cover it, Agent. But I guess I don't blame you; aren't many words out there meant to cover losing a sister and a nephew in a 48-hour period, huh?" she admitted. She wiped at her eyes, took a deep breath, and finally looked up at the brothers, her eyes darting back and forth between them.

"You have the Bureau's condolences," Dean told her, shrugging subtly at Sam when his brother raised an eyebrow. "But if you could please tell us what you saw—or what you think you saw."

"Why?" she asked, straightening her posture. "What's the FBI doing investigating suicides?"

"How about a deal, Miss Stoughton," Dean proposed. "You tell us your story, we'll tell you ours."

"Alright, fine," she conceded. She instantly dropped her eye contact, watching her agitation of hands like a crystal ball. "But I doubt it'll make an ounce of sense to you," she said with a hint of exceptionally unamused laughter. "The locals ain't even buying it."

"I think you'll find the FBI is a bit more… progressive than local police," Sam assured. "Just tell us exactly what happened."

She nodded. "After Josette died, we took in Henry. He's my late sister's little boy, it's the least I could do. Not to mention, he always got along splendid with my Abigail," she informed, her tone wistful. "It's hard to tell with a child that young, but it was pretty clear he hadn't taken his mother's passing very well—of course, no one expected that of him, naturally, but it does give him a motive, I suppose. I went to pick him up from his school—he was a first grader at the local elementary, had a few really good friends. They must be absolutely gutted.

"Anyway, I pull in to pick him up and he's crying—full-on red-faced crying. So, of course, I'm concerned. I got out of the car and he's holding a bloody rock. I ask him what happened and he says—in complete monotone, mind you, 'I had a reason, Aunt Heidi. Clarissa was a witch. She said her mother taught her to float—her mother taught her witchcraft, Aunt Heidi. So I stoned her to death as punishment for her sins.'

"That struck me—for more than the obvious. I loved that boy so very much, but he was never exceptionally bright. Had a nasty fall when he was maybe four or five, and ever since he's been a bit slow. No way in hell little Henry would know anything about Witch Trials—or, hell, no way he'd speak to me like that. Not to mention, no one ever saw what he did to Clarissa Danforth coming. She was just five, you see—a kindergartener. And she always got on so well with Henry; the two of them practically grew up together. And now they're both—

"Regardless, I could tell something was off about Henry, you know? But I took him home and drew him a bath and figured I'd deal with the legalities after he was tucked in. I swear to you, I turned around a minute to grab the bar soap and the next I know he's strung up in the ceiling. Couldn't even tell you where the rope came from."

Sam and Dean looked to one another, then back to Heidi, whose face instantly fell. "You don't even believe me anymore, do you?" she said, shaking her head. "Can't say I'm surprised. Sorry to have wasted your time, Agents."

She was prepared to get up, but Sam reached out and put a hand on her knee. "We definitely believe you, Heidi," he told her. Easing up, she resumed her seat. "Is there anything else you can tell us about Clarissa or Henry—important or otherwise?"

She stopped for a second to think before nodding. "I mean, Donovan Danforth—Clarissa's older brother, went postal at a local church. Boy killed 6 people before turning the gun around on himself."

"Do you have names?" Dean asked, retrieving a pad of paper from the desk in front of him and a pen from within his jacket.

She nodded again. "Felicity and Marcus Gedney, Peter Winthrop, Lucy and Alan Sewall, and Patricia Richards."

"Thank you, Miss Stoughton."

"Is that everything then, Agents?"

"Not quite," Sam said. "We told you we'd tell you our story, so here it is. We, at the Bureau, are opening up a new chapter—top-secret, of course—to snuff out the supernatural. There are a lot of seemingly impossible true stories like yours, Miss Stoughton; this is simply the Bureau's effort to thoroughly investigate."

"Federal Ghostbusters?" she scoffed, crossing her arms.

"But you can't go spreading it, you hear? Truth be told, I wasn't supposed to tell you any of that. What if you didn't believe me, huh?"

She rolled her eyes at him, but accepted his cover-up nonetheless. "I don't," she admitted with a chuckle. "But what do I know? I'm sure whatever your reason actually is, it's decent. Can't see the FBI wasting its time and resources sending its boy band members up here from DC."

"Thank you for your time, Miss Stoughton. And again, condolences from the Bureau," Dean told her. He got to his feet as she did and put a hand on her shoulder just before she could turn to leave. "And, off the record, keep an eye out—for yourself and your daughter, you hear? We're not sure what's happening, but it sure as hell feels like this is working its way through the family. We'd hate to see either of you lose someone else."

"Thank you, Agent," she said with a smile, heading on her way.

Dean turned to face his brother, who was now also on his feet. "Seem like a case to you now, Sammy?"

"Really, Dean? You're using the death of a seven-year-old for your 'I told you so' moment?"

"Hey, I take what comes my way."

§§§§§

Sam, situated at the table in their motel room, took to researching the story Heidi Stoughton had given them. Sure enough, there it was. "Shooting at Salem church: 7 dead, 4 wounded," he read off to Dean, who was lying on the bed staring blankly at the ceiling.

Dean sighed, sitting himself up. "Great," he replied with a roll of the eyes. "So we got 10 corpses and 4 almost-corpses. And no clue what's doing it."

"Well, I mean, it is Tuesday," Sam responded with a smirk.

"Very funny," Dean said. "I'll tell you what I do know, Sam. 4 wounded—that's good."

"How?" Sam scoffed, folding his arms across his chest.

"4 wounded means 4 witnesses. That we can talk to. Without performing a séance or some shit. 4 living, breathing witnesses to talk to."

"Alright, well, you get on that, then. I'll hang back, see what I can dig up about the cadavers. Hey—what was it you told Heidi Stoughton? It's going through families? How do you figure?"

Dean shrugged. "Call it a hunch. Whatever's going on took out Josette Stoughton and her son? Clarissa Danforth and her brother? Not to mention I'll bet high money a few of the names she gave us are either parent and child or husband and wife. Seemed like enough of a pattern to say Heidi needs to throw some salt over her shoulder for herself and her daughter."

Sam nodded slowly, turning to his laptop. "Good thinking," he said, opening the internet to follow up on his brother's suspicions. "Think it's a curse?"

Dean contorted his face. "Nah. If it were a curse, why bounce around between families? You'd think it'd latch itself onto one of them, right? Or at least finish one lineage before moving onto the next one. But unless I misunderstood, Clarissa's brother died before Josette but Clarissa died after. Doesn't line up."

"Damn," Sam sighed. "I'll find it—whatever it is. Go talk to those people. If we're lucky, maybe they'll have noticed changes in Clarissa's brother before the shooting."

"Sure thing, Sammy," Dean replied, grabbing his phone and heading outside.

After his brother was gone, Sam continued his researching, just like he'd promised. Playing off Dean's hunch, he decided to look into the history of the Stoughton family in Salem. As it stood, a William Stoughton was both Chief Justice and Chief Magistrate during the trials in the late 17th century. Knowing his line of duty, it couldn't have been coincidental, then, that Stoughtons were beginning to drop dead.

So he looked into the Danforth family. Then the Richards family. The Gedney family. The Winthrops. The Sewalls. Each turned up the same result—someone bearing the name was on the court.

"So a ghost maybe?" he said to himself, now researching the names of every single person who had been executed. "That would explain the hangings and the stoning," he continued. "A crazy, pissed off spirit of someone who died in vain. Seen it before."

§§§§§

Dean, still wearing his suit from when they talked to Heidi Stoughton earlier in the day, cleared his throat as he approached the front desk of the hospital. He pulled out his falsified badge, prepared to offer it up to the receptionist.

He looked up to Dean, hearing his nearing footsteps. "Well, I'll be damned," he said coolly. "Police chief said the feds were in, but I didn't believe him."

"If you know who I am, then I assume you know what I came for."

"Course. Talk to the survivors. Which is grand and all, be my guest. But there's only one left—the other three are… we'll call them permanently indisposed."

"Dead."

"To put it bluntly."

Dean sighed, putting his badge back into his jacket. "What happened?"

"It's a bit bizarre, Agent… Sorry, I never asked for the badge. What's your name?"

"Lightfoot. Agent Lightfoot."

"Well, Lightfoot, these suicides don't sound like your wheelhouse. Hell, don't sound like anyone's wheelhouse."

"Try me."

"Huland Corwin went first. Crazy son of a bitch kept asking for reading material—wouldn't stop for a good two weeks. We thought he was just an avid reader, but Jeanie Lowe walked in on the man stacking them on his lungs until he couldn't breathe anymore."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Alright, yeah. That counts as bizarre."

"Kendra Hathorne was called maybe half hour later. Woman asked an orderly to draw her a bath and drowned herself in it. And the last of them was Bob Sergeant. Poor man hanged himself overnight."

"Suicides like this happen often here?" Dean asked with mild bemusement.

"Nope. Not until these three. Kind of freaked the whole hospital to hell and back, if you ask me. But anyway—only witness left is Kathy Dicer, but she's a bit off the rocker."

"I'll take whatever I can, uhm…" Dean examined him for a name tag. "Josh."

"Whatever you say, Agent." Josh pointed down the hallway to Dean's left. "Fourth door on the right," he directed.

"Thanks," Dean said, heading on his way.

Upon entering Kathy's room, Dean was greeted instantly by a fistful of salt to the chest. He raise his eyebrow suspiciously, taking a chair and nodding towards her bed, prompting her to assume a seat on its side cross from him.

"So you're not a ghost, then" she said calmly. "Good. That's good. I'm so tired of ghosts, Mister. So damn tired. They don't stop talking, you know. Just shout—and they say the most awful things. Telling me to kill, people, Mister. Good people, too. People I grew up around. Got histories in this town, too. I mean, I can't just up and kill Josephine Hale, now can I? Woman's a legacy. Insufferable as the Devil himself, but a legacy nonetheless. Has a family tree in Massachusetts going back to the trial days. Course, things aren't looking too good in these parts for people like that. Been dropping like flies, it seems. Maybe it's the ghosts. Think the ghosts could be behind all this, Mister? I think the ghosts are behind it. There are so many of them in this town, Mister. Think they could have formed a cooperative? Like a union? Think they're out here killing people whose ancestors had a hand in their deaths? I think so. What else could it be? What I don't understand is why they closed the bullet hole for me. Donovan Danforth shot me dead in the heart, Mister, you know that? Right in the ticker. Boy had good aim. I should have been dead on impact, I think. But here I am—talking, breathing. I think the ghosts did it—because I'm not who they're after. I think they used poor Donovan as their conduit and took the pawn off the chessboard when they were done with him, that's what I think. And then, when Corwin, Hathorne, and Sergeant didn't die from what Donovan did to them, they just did it themselves. I don't think it was suicide, you know; don't think any of the recent deaths were suicide. It was the ghosts, Mister. I swear, it had to have been the ghosts. I—what was your name again?"

"It's not important," he replied, his eyes wide. "Sorry to have bothered you, Miss Dicer. I'll be on my way."

"Watch your back, Mister. Don't want to end up like any of us have, do you now?"

§§§§§

Just when he was about to call Sam, Dean's phone rang—an incoming call from his brother. He opened the car door and answered the phone as he slid in behind the wheel. Closing the door, he said, "I think I know what's on around here."

"So do I," Sam replied. "You thinking vengeful spirit?"

"Yeah," Dean affirmed. "I mean—not unexpected, right? I'm surprised we haven't heard of a pissed off ghost up here before now."

"You're right," Sam agreed. "I always assumed Salem would be, like, a hotbed for ghost activity."

"Well, according to the one survivor I… talked to, I guess, it is."

"I thought there were 4 survivors."

"There were," Dean confirmed, now halfway to their motel. It wasn't too far a drive from the hospital. "3 of them are dead now—suicide. The woman who's still alive was… a bit senile, I think. But she kept mentioning all the ghosts around here telling her to kill people—people whose families had a hand in the trials. Do me a favor—look up the history of the Dicer family in Salem."

"On it," Sam replied, opening his laptop again. "She happen to give you any names? There's a lot of people that died unjustly here, Dean. Anyone's guess who's doing this."

"Not a ghost's name, no. But I'd keep an eye out for any news involving Josephine Hale—hell, any Hales. She did mention her by name. She thinks ghosts are telling her to take Josephine out."

"Alright," Sam replied, continuing to search Kathy's family. "Hey, wait, I got something on the Dicers. They have a history here, but it's unlike any of the other vics. There was an Elizabeth Dicer accused of witchcraft, but she survived. Nothing about anyone in her line conducting trials or anything."

"No wonder she's still kicking, then. Kathy don't fit the profile."

"But why would the spirits be contacting her?"

"Who knows? Maybe they think she's on their side since her ancestor was innocent. Spirits are tricky."

"Makes sense, I suppose. But I'm not exactly sure how we're supposed to identify these ghosts. Besides, even if we can, the dead were put in mass graves and scattered about by family members. Those bones could be anywhere. Might not even be possible to find them."

"We'll figure something out, Sam."

"If you say so."

"This place is full of hoodoo witch mojo," Dean scoffed. "If there's anywhere we'll be able to find a secondary way to deal with these sons of bitches, it's here, right? There's got to be a real witch somewhere in these parts. And there's got to be some kind of spell to get the job done. It's a statistical guarantee, wouldn't you think? We'll do it one way or another."

"Alright, Little Miss Sunshine. In the meantime, I'll keep digging up some dirt, see what I can find."

§§§§§

"I still don't know why the FBI would be interested in these records," the librarian scoffed, pulling out boxes labelled 1692-1693 and handing them off to the Winchesters. Finally, once they'd taken the last of them, she stood and dusted off her pleated skirt. She looked up to the boys, her eyes going back and forth between the two. "It's not like there's a ghost or something around here."

"What do you mean? Don't you pedal the company line?" Dean asked, inclining his head.

"Don't believe in the stuff. Been all over the world, it seems. Can't say I've ever found good evidence. Maybe it's a local thing. I've lived here for… quite some time, but I'm not from these parts. So I don't know. Perhaps you gotta be raised into those legends."

"Maybe," Dean replied with a shrug. "Well, believe me, these records help. It's classified information, so I can't give any other details, but it's definitely useful."

"Whatever you say, Agents," she said, pivoting on her heel to leave. Before she could get far, however, she stopped in her tracks. "Call me back over when you're through with them. Not that I don't trust the Bureau, but I can't very well let you go putting them away on your own. Might get it wrong."

"Sure thing," Sam assured. With that, she was on her way. Sam turned to his brother, taking the lid off a box. "What exactly are we looking for?"

Dean shrugged again. "Your guess is as good as mine, Sammy," he replied. "Anything that sounds helpful, I guess. Burial records would be fan-fricken-tastic, but that's a little out of the question."

Sam rolled his eyes.

The two began digging until Sam stumbled across something. "Dean—no wonder we've never heard of ghost activity around these parts," he said. Dean looked up to him, his eyebrows arched. "Someone already came through and burned every last corpse in town."

Dean pursed his lips, placing the files in his hands back in the box. "So then what's going on?"

"No idea," Sam sighed. "Well, guess we're back to square one. Where'd that librarian—oh, here she is! That was… strangely good timing," he said, his eyes wide when she stepped into the area.

"I was doing some rounds," she said coolly. "Figured I'd stop in. How's the search going, Agents? Find everything you need?"

Dean nodded slowly. "Yeah," he replied. "Sure."

She gave him a smirk as she began placing the boxes back in their respective places. Standing up to retrieve one, she ran into Dean accidentally. "Oh, dear God—I'm so sorry, Agent," she said, her voice frantic. "I can be so damn clumsy sometimes."

Dean had no reply.

§§§§§

The Winchesters had returned to their motel with less of a lead than they'd left with. And a division.

Sam still thought vengeful spirit was a perfectly viable hypothesis. After all, it wouldn't be the first time they'd seen the ghost of someone whose bones had been burned already. However, Dean was beginning to think it could be something else—perhaps witchcraft. They were, as it stood, surrounded by the stuff; odds would say there had to be someone who legitimately practiced.

"Why would a modern day witch be after these people, Dean?" Sam argued. "It doesn't line up. No—a spirit's all it could be."

"Alright, well, if you're so smart, tell me what they're tethered to."

Sam went silent.

"Exactly my point. No foothold, no remains—no spirit. It's basic science, Sam. It's got to be witchcraft." He was pacing, but stopped as he came to a realization. "That librarian—tell me nothing seemed off about her."

"Nothing seemed off about her."

"Really?" Dean scoffed. "How did she know exactly when we were ready?"

"She told you—she was making rounds. Coincidences can happen, you know, Dean."

"Not to us; not in this line of work."

"Look, I don't know what to tell you. She seemed like a perfectly fine lady."

"She ran into me."

"Right, and?"

"Well, maybe it was intentional."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Right. Sure. Trust nobody."

"Think about it, Sam. She was definitely shady."

"You're crazy."

Dean opened his mouth to say something back, but found himself incapable. In the time it took Sam to tilt his head, his brother was doubled over, hands clutching his stomach. He backed up until he landed on the bed where he began coughing blood and water profusely onto his lap. "Find—it's a witch, Sa—find the h-hex—find the bag," he said, trying to communicate between bouts of coughing.

Sam nodded curtly and began tearing the room apart digging for the hex bag. Apparently his brother was right. He finally found the thing once he cut into the mattress with his knife. Holding it in his hand, he set it ablaze and threw it to the ground. Dean took in a deep breath and spit out what blood remained in his mouth. Gaining his strength back, he glared up at his brother. "Still think it's not a witch, Sam?"

§§§§§

The instant Dean was up to it (which was about ten minutes after the hex incident), the brothers headed out on a hunt for Sarah Good, their suspect number one. Their first stop was the library, naturally. However, it was somewhat late in the evening, so the place was, of course, closed. As such, it was time for Plan B.

They split up—Sam was dropped at the police station and Dean headed off towards the hospital. The hope was either Sam could find a way to pinpoint where she was or Dean could find her using Kathy Dicer. Neither plan was ideal, and neither plan was a given. But they'd be damned if they didn't at least give them each a shot.

Sam, at the station, began digging up everything he could on Sarah—starting, of course, by looking for a real name, under the assumption Sarah Good was no more than a pseudo.

"Yeah, of course I know Sarah," the deputy informed, his eyes wide. "Good gal; keeps her nose clean. Is she in trouble, Agent?"

"More than you could imagine."

The deputy's breath began shaking. "Look, Agent. I don't know what's going on. But Sarah Good is a citizen of this town—and an upstanding one at that. Unless you can give me some legitimate reasoning here, I can't just let you do whatever. I don't know how you run it down in DC, but we like to play by the rules up here."

Sam rolled his eyes. "I need to question her—I really need to question her."

"Why? She do something?"

"Maybe. Maybe not. I wouldn't know. I haven't been able to fucking question her."

The deputy sighed, his lips pursed. "You can bring her in to question, I guess. But only to question. I don't want to hear that you laid a God-given hand on that woman, understand? This is already completely out of line for our establishment. Consider it a favor."

"Great," Sam replied. "Would you be so kind as to tell me how to reach her."

The deputy scowled, but picked up a pen from the desk and wrote a phone number on Sam's hand regardless. "Call that."

"Thank you, deputy."

Dean's search, meanwhile, was equally as eventful. The second he stepped into the hospital, he was greeted by Josh, again, but this time he was different. More reserved, less sociable. As if he'd seen a ghost, even.

"Josh," Dean greeted coolly.

No reply.

"Josh. It's Agent Lightfoot. I was here a day or two ago. You told me about the suicides; I talked to Kathy Dicer. I thought we had a connection, here."

No reply.

Dean, noticing Josh's glassy expression, waved a hand over his face. No reply, again.

"Damn it," he sighed. He climbed over the reception desk and slid Josh's chair out. Sure enough, the man's pants were drenched in blood. Blood and water. Like at the motel. Dean let out a sigh, pushing the chair back in. He headed rapidly down the hall to find Kathy Dicer, hoping beyond hope that maybe she was lucid.

She was alive, sure, but she was still evidently dazed. However, when he'd met her before, she was docile. Somewhat mental, sure, but docile. As he approached her now, the look in her eyes kept telling him he should be on his way.

"I know who you're looking for," she said, her voice even and monotone.

Dean inclined his head. "Can you tell me where to find her, then?"

"Mary says you're in over your head."

"Excuse me?"

"Mary says you should be dead by now. Mary says she's impressed you managed to survive her spellwork."

"Who's Mary?"

"Mary says you're smart. Mary admires that in you. But Mary says you need to learn to watch your back better."

Before Dean could answer, he felt a searing pain in his left leg that caused him to drop to the floor.

"Mary says it didn't have to end up this way."

§§§§§

Sam dialed the number the deputy had given him and, sure enough, a woman picked up the other end.

"What happened? Couldn't find your way here?" she taunted.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Playing a fun game. Seeing how much I can stack on your brother's chest before he bites it. They used to love to do executions like this back in the day, you know. Honestly, until just now—no, no, until Huland Corwin, really—I never got the appeal. But I get it now. There's something so brutally fascinating about it."

Sam said nothing, but she could hear his angry breath on the other line.

"Oh, calm down, now. There's plenty for the both of you. I'm not hiding, you know. Wouldn't have answered the phone if I didn't want you to come play with me. We're waiting."

With that, she hung up. She put the phone down and looked over to Kathy, who was still as expressionless and lifeless as ever. "Kathy, be a dear and go get some more material. Agent Lightfoot and I have a lot to discuss."

"Mary says she needs more books," Kathy said aloud before heading out to retrieve some for her.

"God, she's so efficient. Should have brought her on earlier," Mary said to herself. She looked down to Dean with a smirk. "How you doing, there?"

He scowled up to her, but said nothing.

"Thought so. I've been trying to figure it out—what did me in? I knew you and your 'partner' were hunters the second you came in, but I didn't expect you to be on my trail so damn soon."

"Bite me," Dean breathed.

Mary rolled her eyes. "I have a confession to make—you'll be dead once Kathy gets back here, so it's not like it changes much. Would you believe me if I said my name isn't Sarah Good?"

"Bite me."

"Yeah, I know. Surprised no one found it out. That name is plastered all over this town; the real girl, poor thing, was executed for witchcraft in my day. Damn shame, too. You know, those bastards were all onto something. Sure, no one that actually died was a witch, but some of us really were. Guess they just didn't have the right equipment to handle us. But no matter. I've gotten great pleasure out of destroying their lineages one bastard kid at a time. Why take so long, you ask? Well, I took a bit of extended leave off in England—in my native town. Fled from Massachusetts after being—albeit accurately—accused my damn self, and finally got around to making it back. And I'd say I waited a damn good amount of time. There are so many descendants nowadays, and I never tire of any of this. Gets more thrilling each time." There were footsteps down the hall. "That's probably the other one," she said coolly.

Sure enough, Sam Winchester walked in, dragging behind him Kathy Dicer's now dead body. Entering the room, he dropped it to the ground. "Some advice: make your attack dogs stronger next time."

She smirked, but extended a hand to him. "Mary Bradbury," she introduced. "Nice to make your acquaintance. But you're a bit late to story time, I'm afraid."

"Don't care."

"Straight to business kind of guy. I can respect that."

Sam pulled a gun from his back pocket, at which Mary scoffed. "Come on. You don't really think that can kill me, do you?"

"One way to find out," he said, shooting her dead between the eyes. When she dropped to the floor, he leaned over and whispered, "Witch-killing bullets, bitch."

Finally, he kicked the stack of books off his brother's chest and hoisted him up. With Sam at the wheel, the brothers drove back to the bunker.