Suffering from a cold provides an excellent cover for having lost your voice from eating a supernaturally cursed pie. Dean only had to cough and point to his throat for Deputy Adams to nod in understanding, assuming Dean's cold and sore throat had robbed Dean of his voice.

"Well, this is where we found him," the deputy explains, pointing to the edge of the creek, small red flags marking off the site. "He was partially submerged. Couple of kids reported it."

Dean nods, trying not to imagine what those kids had thought. Uncapping the pen with his teeth, Dean writes out his first question.

How long was he missing?

"Just under three weeks," Deputy Adams answers, adjusting his hat so the brim blocks the setting sun. "And before you ask, coroner says he's probably been dead for about the same amount of time. Water's responsible for the condition of the body, also helped keep animals from getting to him."

Dean can't help thinking it'd probably have been better if Fido had taken a nibble of Dr. Tate, probably wouldn't have been as gross.

Any ideas what happened?

The deputy shakes his head, obviously hating to admit the truth. "Nope. Doc wasn't married, lived alone. His secretary reported him missing when he didn't show up for work. We don't even know what he was doing out here, let alone who he would have been meeting."

Dean looks around the crime scene, not seeing anything out of the ordinary outside of the yellow police tape and red markers. The water looks clean and clear, no hint that there had been a decomposing body lying in it just hours before. The creek isn't too deep, looks like it would go mid-thigh if Dean were to stand in the middle. Letting his eyes follow the creek's winding path, Dean's eyes widen as he recognizes a large shape in the distance.

Pen once again in hand, Dean hastily scribbles out his next question, feeling a twinge of excitement at the possibility of things coming together.

Is that Jean Dobson's farm? He points towards the large barn in the distance, trying to call forth his internal geographical guru as he pictures the lay-out of the town, trying to remember how far the cut-off was that leads to the creek from the highway that leads to the orchard.

"Sure is," the deputy says, squinting to see the small shape of the distant barn. "We've already got a couple of men over there now, questioning Mrs. Dobson, trying to see if she knows anything."

Dean smiles and nods in approval, doing the socially polite thing, knowing full well that he and Sam will be re-interviewing Mrs. Granny themselves.

He doesn't know how, but he's fairly certain Dr. Tate's involved with the poisoning of the trees, and if nothing else, he's seeing a good salt 'n burn in his near future. A very messy, gooey salt 'n burn.

-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-

Sam's about ninety-three percent certain Dr. Tate's involved. He doesn't know how, but things are starting to fall into place too well to simply be a coincidence. Shelly, Dr. Tate's secretary, had been more than happy to give Sam access to all of the late doctor's files, even going so far as to give him the doctor's password for his computer. Sam suppressed the smile at his good fortune, at Shelly's obvious cluelessness when it comes to doctor-patient confidentiality, else he would never have gotten into the office, badge or not.

"I only worked with him for about a month, but he was a really great guy, an excellent psychiatrist" Shelly had told him in between soft tears, not too heavy, nothing more than would be deemed appropriate for having just learned your boss was murdered. "I'd like to say he didn't have any enemies, but he worked with some pretty rough clients, mostly juveniles, though." And again, Sam was sending silent prayers of thanks, because where as all patients are afforded a right to privacy, when it comes to juveniles, that's a whole other ball game.

She had left Sam alone after that, letting him know she'd be just down the hall if he needed anything. Sam hadn't needed much time. Dr. Tate was an organized man, alphabetizing his entire client list, and keeping detailed notes and calendar entries outlining each day's schedule.

A quick promise to Shelley to return the borrowed items as soon as the investigation is finished, Sam left the office building before someone who actually understood the workings of HIPAA asked why he was walking out with Dr. Larry Tate's laptop and personal planner.

Now, sitting outside the small café across the street, a fresh cup of coffee in his hands, Sam's keeping one eye on the medical building's entrance and another on the corner of the street, his ears straining for that familiar rumble of an old engine.

He opens the planner again, his eyes searching for that one entry, the one that had sparked his interest and first cemented his belief in Tate's involvement. A few weeks back, written on a page under the heading 'Tuesday', Sam rereads the messy doctor script.

J. Dobson 1:30-GW for HM

Albeit, the town isn't very big, but the odds of their dead doctor having connections to the Granny by more than just her pie is way more than a coincidence and is exactly the kind of thing Sam's been looking for, that piece of the puzzle he's wanted since first watching that video of the mayor on the internet.

As the sound of the Impala coming around the corner breaks his train of thought, Sam closes the planner and looks up in time to see his brother's smile, a sure sign that he's not the only one with a lead.

Sam barely has time to close the door and get settled in the passenger seat before Dean's shoving that freaking notebook in his face, his excitedly sloppy handwriting taking up half of the small page.

Dead dude was found less than a mile from Granny's trees. I'm thinking pissed off ghost is spiking the apples. Snatch his body and burn the bastard!

"How would a ghost curse an apple tree," Sam asks, "or better yet, why would he curse an apple tree?"

Dean shrugs, not liking the whole buzz kill his brother's creating.

Sam continues on, not letting the sharp stare Dean gives him deter him in any way. "Even if we burn his body, which is gonna be really gross by the way, it still doesn't answer how we break the curse and get you talking again."

Sam thinks back to all the cursed objects they've dealt with, the rabbit's foot being the most memorable, the Civil War penny being the most recent. Burning the object seems to be the best way to end the curse. But even if they were to torch each and every tree along with all the pies found throughout the town, it's still a long shot that mass arson will solve their problem.

All the victims had eaten the cursed objects, and based on the time line, there's no sign of the curse simply passing through the system. Part of Sam hopes that burning the doctor and the trees will reverse the effects, but the logical more realistic, jaded part of him keeps whispering that things are gonna go to crap. Again.

Catching sight of Dean's none-to-subtle eyebrow raise and one shouldered shrug clearly signifying a silent 'it might work', Sam forces himself to push aside any doubt, at least for the moment.

"There's no way we're gonna get to the body tonight. It's too risky with the sheriff's department doing their investigation, and the coroner working to finish the autopsy." His fingers tapping on the top of Dr. Tate's laptop, Sam concedes to spending the rest of the night trying to determine what reasons the doctor would have had for poisoning Jean Dobson's apple trees.

-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-

His eyes are burning from staring at the screen too long, and he's pretty certain if he were able to gather enough energy to look in a mirror, he would probably see that he looks like a meth-head on the tail end of a bad binge. He's already showered, and readied for bed. His hair is almost dried, the ends resting against his shirt collar are still damp, making his exposed neck cold as he leans over the keyboard, tiredly reading through the doctor's notes on Grant Williams, aka Granny Jean's foster child who likes to spend school days hanging out in a dilapidated barn, and is also the GW in the mysterious calendar entry.

Dean's lying face down on the bed, an occasional congested snort/cough breaking through the medicine induced sleep. Sam had been a little surprised when he saw Dean chugging from the bottle, but Dean had quickly explained it's best to get it out of the way, to hurry and try and get better so that he'll be closer to the top of his game when they sneak into the morgue.

Scrolling down to the bottom of the page, Sam continues to read about Dr. Tate's concerns for Grant Williams, concerning everything from disrespect for authority to the teen's strong anti-social tendencies. Unfortunately, the detailed note keeping Sam was so looking forward to reading shifts in style once the doctor began writing in the patient's actual case file. Shorthand doesn't begin to describe the long list of letters displayed on the screen.

Most of it, had been pretty basic and easy to discern. HM stands for Hartfeld Memorial, something Dean had sorted out and happily divulged to his brother with a quick point to his bruised nose, reminding Sam of the angry psych patient and green tinged gowns.

Dr. Tate had used initials for almost everything, including diagnoses and suggested treatment and therapies, and no matter what they typed into Google, Sam and Dean weren't able to decipher the doctor's notes, not fully at least.

Realizing that the likelihood of him suddenly understanding the jumbled alphabet before him is incredibly low, Sam turns off the computer and tiredly rubs his eyes, savoring the pleasant burn as his eyelids finally close. Using nothing more than pure Winchester stubbornness, Sam pushes himself from the small table and manages to make it to the bed before collapsing, sighing with a small smile as his sore muscles begin to relax against the thin mattress. He can feel the springs pushing against his shoulders, and as he listens to his brother's quiet, even wheezing, Sam fully expects to get at least a good four hours sleep.

What he doesn't expect is to wake up only two hours later from what he feels to be an unnecessary slap to the face only to find Dean gesturing to the window like a deranged Vanna White.

"What the hell?" he wants to ask, only stopping when he sees the all too recognizable glow dancing through the window, that permanently memorized smell, and the distant call of sirens.

Dean snaps his fingers in front of Sam's face, mouths what would have been a very loud 'hurry up', and grabs his discarded jeans from the floor, the belt still in place from the day before.

Sam doesn't know how close the fire is to their room, but any distance is too close, especially with their luck. Fully clothed in t-shirt and pajama pants, Sam slips his feet into his shoes, laces undone as he helps Dean gather what would be the hardest to replace should their room go up in flames. They work quickly but efficiently, giving the elusion that they've practiced just for this scenario as they grab the two laptops, library book, and bag of weapons.

Outside, they see that the lobby is in flames, slowly spreading to the nearby rooms. Other guests begin to flood the parking lot, their arms full of luggage, phones, and kids, everyone looking as though they've just dug their clothes out of a Salvation Army bin, not caring whether they match or not.

Only moments later, firefighters arrive, herding the small crowd to the other side of the street as they continue to check other rooms, insuring that everyone is out. Sam sets his bag on the ground, pulling on his jacket as more emergency vehicles arrive, the flashing lights and flames mixing to create a colorful disco ball effect against the damp asphalt.

He turns to Dean, noticing the pinched look on Dean's face, the way his eyes keep searching the crowd. Sam would be lying if he said he hadn't been inspecting his brother to be worried about the Impala, which is parked right in front of their room. But now, watching Dean look anywhere but towards the car, Sam realizes that it's the last thing on Dean's mind.

"Dean?" Sam asks, grabbing his brother's shoulder and attention amongst all the noise. Dean turns, and without the aid of his notebook still in the room, he mouths very slowly and exaggeratedly, 'Where's Linda?'

And suddenly, Sam's spinning around, searching each corner of the parking lot for the small woman and her teacup hell hound, mimicking his brother's earlier movements. "Son of a bitch," he mutters, nervously wiping at his mouth. He feels in his pocket, cursing when he realizes his FBI badge is still in the room. He's about to say to hell with it, to storm across the barrier the firefighters had put in place when Dean hits him on the arm gesturing towards a fire truck before taking off.

Sam sighs with relief when he sees Deputy Adams standing near the large truck. He's dressed in blue jeans, looking as though he hadn't planned on working tonight.

"Deputy!" Sam yells, getting the officer's attention. He sees the firefighter take a step forward to stop them before Deputy Adams pulls him back, waving for Dean and Sam to come on over.

Dean reaches him first, but stops and turns to Sam when he angrily realizes he can't explain.

"We can't find the motel's manager. She was in the lobby earlier tonight," Sam begins, once again turning to look over the many faces waiting across the street. "We think she's still inside."

The firefighter doesn't wait for any more information, he simply takes off, grabbing the attention of the two firemen trying to contain the crowd. Sam and Dean watch nervously as three men in full fire gear enter the burning lobby.

Sam isn't entirely certain how much time passes, but he knows it's way more than he's comfortable with. He's starting to wonder whether or not they should send in more firemen, someone to go check on the first three when the small crowd across the street suddenly bursts into applause.

All three men exit the burning building, Linda coughing heavily as the first two help hold her up, the third following behind with a soot covered Chihuahua. Paramedics quickly descend on the group, levering Linda up onto a gurney and placing a mask over her face.

As Sam approaches, he can see she's crying one hand pointing towards the motel and the flames, the other trying to stop the medic from doing his job, grabbing his arm and squeezing.

"Ms. Campbell," Deputy Adams says calmingly, and Sam stands aside, letting him take the lead, "Are you okay?" Linda switches her attention from the medic to the deputy, her sobs and coughing too intense to actually make out whatever it is she's saying.

"Ms. Campbell, please, calm down, try and breathe," the deputy encourages, not letting her hysterics disrupt him, "Do you have any idea what's happened? Can you tell me how the fire got started?"

She begins to mumble again, the coughing giving way to be dominated by the sobs, but all those around make out the word 'smoke' amongst the heaving breaths.

"I know, it's difficult to breathe. The questions can wait, just focus on taking deep breaths," the medic intervenes, assuming Linda's talking about the smoke in the air. When Linda shakes her head, the sobs increasing, Sam clears his throat as he prepares to speak up, his knowledge of the curse helping him know what it is she's talking about.

"Uh, I think she's talking about cigarette smoke," he says, both the medic and the deputy looking at him questioningly. "Were you smoking Linda?"

She nods, her fingers wrapped around the mask. "I was smoking and it…I fell asleep, it just…I need a smoke," she finally gets out, causing the people around her to look at her as though she's seriously suffering from oxygen deprivation.

"You want another cigarette?" the medic asks, speaking slowly and patiently for Linda to understand.

"I know," Linda says, dipping her head as she coughs yet again, fisting her hands as she fights for air. "I know it's crazy, but I…I can't explain."

Sam leaves the medic to tend to Linda, catching the sympathetic look Dean gives the manager before turning to leave. They walk back across the street, watching as the firefighters drench the motel, working to stop the fire from spreading to the rest of the building. They share a look, quietly agreeing on the same thing. Risky or not, they have to burn Larry Tate's body as soon as possible, before anyone else gets hurt.

TBC...


As always, reviews are welcomed and appreciated.