Chapter 3

Lyra placed the four glasses of scotch on the table, taking a seat opposite her father.

"Slanté," said Jim taking a glass.

"Cheers," replied Dean clinking glasses with the other three. Taking a sip he thought of fresh cut grass and a warm night while the amber fluid heated his throat.

Sam's eyebrows arched as he tried not to show a reaction to the fiery liquor. "Nice," he managed hoarsely.

Lyra smiled at Sam. He was genuinely sweet. His older brother must watch out for him a lot she speculated.

oo00oo

"Your dad's a pretty cool guy," Dean was attempting to fill the lapse in conversation. Neil Young's 'Old Man' emanated softly from the stereo. Sam was back out in the front of the store looking at some kind of talisman or something Jim had wanted to show him.

"Yeah he is," Lyra replied.

"He must worry about you."

Lyra's smooth white brow furrowed. Where was he going with this?

"Running with the crowd that you do," Dean continued. No point putting off the inevitable. He had to confront her about this sometime.

"What crowd would that be?"

"Guys who claim to be responsible for making the earth move," Dean smiled wryly leaning towards her and lowering his tone. "And not in that way. I'm talking 5.1 on the Richter."

Lyra's blue eyes grew about fifty degrees colder. Fucking Mitch, she thought heatedly. He was going to get an earful from her about this. Idiot!

"I have no idea what you're talking about," leaning in and speaking softly. She could out-maneouveur this guy easily. Batting her thick eyelashes she saw Dean's gaze fall on her slightly parted lips. She made her move.

His lips were softer than she expected. Pillowy but hesitant, he wasn't sure how to respond. She persisted, lightly running the tip of her tongue across his full lips. They opened immediately. She smiled to herself as his hand came up quickly to grasp the back of her neck pulling her head gently but urgently closer. Their kiss deepened. His hand cupped the side of her face; thumb delicately traced her cheek. A deeply caring gesture, she was surprised by her response. It had been a long time since a man had made her feel this way.

This wasn't what she'd intended. She heard a voice but didn't care. All she knew was Dean's open mouth, warm and welcoming. Faintly tasting of scotch. Her sudden moistness made her shift in her chair.

"Dean!" Sam stuck his head through the velvet curtains. "We have to go."

Glaring at his younger brother Dean replied sharply, "I heard you the first time!"

Sam's head popped back through the curtain leaving Dean and Lyra alone again. Smiling half-heartedly at her Dean warned, "We're not through with this."

"Uh-huh," Lyra leaned back watching Dean pull his jacket closed as he rose from his chair. Presumably to hide the strain in his jeans as he exited the back room.

"I certainly hope not," she said to herself.

Dean looked cross as he walked down the sidewalk beside his brother, although not nearly as cross as Sam.

"What the hell were you doing back there?" Sam demanded.

"What'd it look like?"

"Don't get involved with her, Dean. She's running with a seriously dangerous crowd."

"Don't really care about her friends."

Sam stopped short and grabbed his older brother's shoulder pushing him against the side of the building they were passing. Lowering his voice to an angry whisper, "You know as well as I do what it takes to summon a force of nature like an earthquake or kill a bunch of whales."

Dean pushed his brother's arm off his.

"You know what she's playing with, right?" Sam persisted.

"A demon," Dean admitted quietly, angrily eyeing the Impala and wishing he could get the fuck out of this town right now.

"Like the kind that killed mom." Sam's tone softened, "She's bad news, Dean."

oo00oo

Sam found Dean standing in front of a poster-size enlargement of a 17th century woodcut. They were the only visitors in the Salem Witch Museum at the moment. The image of a Puritan woman tied to a stake, flames licking at her long skirts, her face contorted in anguish surrounded by a crowd of onlookers.

"I thought most of the witches were hanged?" commented Dean.

"Supposedly they were but witch burnings were common across medieval Europe. The tradition probably continued here."

Sam looked around the room at the various scary-looking tools of the witch-hunting trade. They even had a real iron maiden near the exit.

"There were so many violent and unwarranted deaths in this town there must be an enormous amount of malevolent spirits hanging around."

Checking that no one was nearby Dean whispered, "I thought you said it was a demon?"

"It's got to be but the whole area's probably full of spiritual unrest. Like a metaphysical open sore."

"Dude," Dean couldn't resist any opportunity to tease his younger brother. "Metaphysical open sore?"

"You know exactly what I mean. The whole town could be full of unstable, vengeful spirits willing to assist something larger, more evil into this plane."

"Well, knowing what we're up against is half the battle," agreed Dean.

"So how do we destroy it?"

"That's the tricky part," Dean eyed the iron maiden dismally.

A polite cough emanated from across the room. "We're closing in 10 minutes, gentlemen."

Dean and Sam turned to see a balding man dressed in grey cardigan and tweed trousers shuffling towards them.

"Okay," said Sam. "Uh, can we ask you a couple of questions though?"

"Of course young man. Ask away."

"Well, we were in the Macleod's store earlier. Interesting place, you know them?"

"A little," answered the museum curator. "Nice family."

"Uh, yeah." Dean replied.

"Shame about the other daughter though," said the elderly man sadly shaking his head.

"What?" Sam asked, "What other daughter?"

"The missing one. That's why they moved here a few months back. To look for her but far as I've heard, no one knows what happened to her."

Sam and Dean exchanged a quick look.

"What can you tell us about Jim and Lyra?" asked Dean.

"Well," began the curator with a wry smile. "You've probably noticed this town has no short supply of stores claiming to by purveyors of witchcraft supplies and Wiccan knowledge."

"Sure," agreed Dean. "I bet there's some real interesting Chamber of Commerce meetings around here."

"Well, most of the folks who run these shops are dabblers. You know new age, crystal-loving, environment-protecting people who just missed the hippy boat and are looking for an alternative religion."

"And the Macleods?" prompted Sam.

"They're the real deal," stated the curator simply.

"The 'real deal'?" Dean repeated.

"Pagan family from way back. They can trace their ancestry to the ancient Celt mages." Pointing at the picture of the woman burning at the stake, the curator continued. "Reason why their family survived the 'Burning Times' in Europe is that they lived so far up in the Highlands. Real mystical country that, Scotland and Ireland. Standing stones, ley lines, diviners of genuine Earth Magic."

Sam and Dean were a bit stunned by the old man's speech. Clearly he had a great deal of respect for the Macleods and their lineage. Sam found his voice first, "And you say a daughter is missing?"

"Yup, Lyra's sister. Kate, I believe her name was. Up and vanished without a trace."

The overhead lights in the museum flickered once and then went out altogether. Dean and Sam fumbled their way towards the door following the red light of the emergency exit sign just above it. Helping the elderly man to the door they thanked him for his time.

Out on the street, people were filing out of their homes and businesses talking excitedly to each other. A man passed them quickly putting on a Salem Volunteer Fire Department jacket, jumping into a nearby pickup truck he called to the curator, "Fire called in, down at the power plant."