Author's Note: The town and ghost story mentioned is actually a true incident that some people believe in, though I kind of twisted the idea into my own liking in order to make it more interesting, etc. So there is a lot of fact and fiction mixed within. The name "Witches Hollow" is what they call the place where the woman lived (a small village within the town). Honestly, I don't even know if the place still exists since I haven't been able to find any information on websites of people actually going there to visit it.

Obviously, I don't own the boys and if I did... Well, they would never leave my basement. I don't even have a basement, but what the hell? This is also my first time writing the brothers and I do hope I got their personalities at least close to the real thing. Let me know otherwise. I am all ears where it concerns my stories -- if something needs to be tweaked, critiqued, etc. etc.

I would like to thank my friends maiafay and smilesbright for looking over this story for me, and encouraging me to go with the plot idea I had invading my twisted little head and wouldn't leave me alone until I got it out! Hopefully you will enjoy it, too.

Witches Hollow

Part One

"I don't think we could be more in the middle of nowhere than we are now," Dean commented dryly, suddenly very tired of staring at deep valleys and windy, two-lane highways riddled with potholes and patches. The Impala drove over another hole, and Dean groaned aloud, slouching further in the passenger seat.

"It shouldn't be much further up the highway. The map said that we would drive right through the town if we stay on this road," Sam replied, pointing at the map in Dean's hands without looking away from the road. "See? Right there is Cave City."

Dean turned the map around and around, brows furrowed. There was no "Cave City" on the map anywhere, just Highway 167 with the closest town fifty miles west called Mountain View. He tossed the map aside and gave his brother a disparaging look from the corner of his eye. "Don't get us lost, Sammy. We'll never make it out of here alive."

"I won't," the younger brother said.

Cave City, Arkansas was their next destination; a small rural town supposedly haunted by mysterious deaths and sightings that were linked to the execution of a young Irish immigrant named Kathryn Sheridon in 1860, suspected of practicing witchcraft and killing her husband.

When the brothers were leaving Baton Rouge Louisiana, Sam had found an article about a recent incident that sparked his interest. He then followed the pattern of deaths over the course of one hundred fifty years. It wasn't just one death every year: One could die one year, then three another, or sometimes none at all – even though the sightings were still recorded. That was where the pattern ended, however, but the deaths still occurred on the same date of Sheridon's execution. It appeared that the Addison and Dubois families were the main targets, and there was no reasonable explanation behind the victims' dying of heart attacks, considering that the majority of them were healthy.

This was definitely in their line of work. Everything added up. Now, all they had to do was interview a few of the townsfolk, and find the answers they needed to get rid of the vengeful spirit – if that's what it was. When it came to their job, it was wise to never underestimate anything, because everything was possible.

"I think we're here," Sam said in a bored tone.

Dean stared out the window, one brow raised in disbelief. Nothing but vacant and dilapidated building greeted them, and even passed a stretch of land with the remains of a steel frame the only thing standing after a recent fire. The town appeared deserted for the most part until they drove down further onto Main Street, and finally saw people, if only a few, walking along the sidewalks. Some curious eyes followed the car, and one elderly lady lounging outside of a general store actually waved at Sam. He smiled nervously and waved back.

"Watch it, Sammy. They might speak a different language here. You could be proposing to the lady for all we know," Dean joked and watched as his brother swallowed, dropping his hand. Dean laughed, his eyes scanning the surroundings for a local motel or even a bar. He'd certainly need a few drinks tonight to survive this God-forsaken place.

There was a barbershop, an old nickel-n-dime store, thrift shop and a bar-b-que restaurant. It was the typical country town that would have a bank located right next to the police station, and a small church with its white picket fence and steeple. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary so far, but it was dreadfully mundane. All that Dean saw was old people and their dogs – no beautiful women baring their midriffs or cleavage for him to ogle at.

"Welcome to Hick Village USA…" he said under his breath, pushing his sunglasses over his eyes to shield the blazing, late afternoon sun and curious stares.

"Maybe we should ask someone where the nearest motel is."

"Do you think we'll have to stay the night with Bubba and Auntie Anne in their trailer home?"

"Dean…"

"I'm just saying, man. I don't think it has been this bad before."

"We're here to help these people," Sam reminded, pulling the Impala into a vacant parking spot in front of the restaurant. "While we're here we can get some food. I'm starving. Maybe someone inside will know something about the deaths."

Dean hoped. He wanted out of this town as quickly as possible. It didn't help matters that a wave of stifling humidity literally slapped Dean in the face when he stepped out of the car. He opened his mouth, tongue hanging out as though he was choking, exhaling air that felt clogged at the back of his throat. In a matter of seconds his jeans were sticking to his skin, and a thin sheet of sweat coated his back and forehead. He expelled his outer shirt, and he exchanged a look with his brother, eyebrows raised. Sam just shrugged and they entered the diner.

Every pair of eyes landed on the brothers as the door chimed closed behind them, blocking out the setting sun and the summer heat. The low hum of the air conditioner drowned out the awkward silence, but it didn't ease the tension that Dean suddenly felt. The dimly lit diner smelled of bar-b-que sauce and old wood, and he noticed strange looks directed his way. They were much more than just normal curiosity. Something wasn't right with the way they regarded him, as though they recognized him but it wasn't a good reaction. He wondered if Sam caught it, too, making a mental to ask later.

"Hey ya'll! Are you here to eat? Or are you going to just stand there and scare my customers away!" A plump, middle-aged woman with a nametag that read "Betty" greeted them cheerfully, two menus clutched to her chest. She smiled at the brothers, the expression reaching her eyes and deepening the laugh lines around the edges.

Dean opted for the more direct approach, and flashed one of his fake badges, giving the woman a stern glare in return. "We're with the Center for Disease Control." It seemed like the logical disguise, considering that the deaths were 'health' related and not murders – so far.

The woman stopped short, staring at the badge with wide eyes. "Oh…"

"My apologies, ma'am, we would definitely like a table," Sam said quickly, pressing his lips in a firm line as he gave his brother a sharp glare. He was embarrassed and irritated; Dean could tell because his little brother always found it disconcerting when he acted straightforward with people. A trait that Dean felt hard pressed of letting go.

"What brings you boys to our neck o' the woods?" Betty asked as she guided the brothers to a booth towards the back of the diner.

Dean stuffed the badge in the back pocket of his jeans, eyeing the other customers carefully. They weren't shy, that's for sure – making it very obvious that they found a particular interest in Dean. He definitely did not like the creepy vibes sent his way.

"We're here investigating the recent Addison death, along with the others before that," Sam answered. "Do you know who we can speak with about it?"

Betty suddenly stiffened and paled. Dean noted how she worked her jaw, a common nervous reaction, and the remains of her joyous smile completely vanished.

"Touchy subject?" Dean asked.

"You could say that, hon," she replied with a curt nod. The muscles in her neck bobbed as she swallowed hard, and she wiped her hands on her apron. "It was a terrible loss. That poor, poor family…"

Dean watched her closely, eyes narrowed; it was obvious she was lying to them. By the look on Sam's face, he was thinking the same thing. However, they kept their observations to themselves as they scooted into the booth.

"Well, what would you two like to drink?" The smile was plastered back on the woman's face, as though nothing had happened that caused her southern charm to stumble.

"I'll have a beer," Dean said quickly.

"Sorry, hon this is a dry county."

His eyebrows flew up in surprise. "Dry… county?"

"That means no alcohol allowed inside the county," Sam said.

"I know what it means." Dean shot his brother a look, resisting the temptation to stomp on his foot underneath the table. "Coffee instead – black"

Sam smiled at Betty, and said, "Same here."

When she left the brothers alone, Dean leaned forward and whispered, "All right, do I have something coming out of my nose?"

His brother looked up from the menu, frowning. "What?"

"I'm serious, Sammy. These people are looking at me like I've grown an extra head including horns."

Sam scanned the diner, shaking his head slowly. "No one's looking, Dean. Let's just eat." He resumed his task of looking over the menu, his mouth practically watering.

"But they were," Dean continued in a hushed tone. "Something's up about this place. You noticed Betty."

Nodding, Sam answered, "Right, but it could mean many things. Maybe she was just upset. This kind of town everyone knows everyone. She could be close with the family."

Dean blinked hard. He leaned against the back of the booth, draping his arms across the top and stared at his brother. "Or they are hiding something and strangers in their town are not welcome."

Sam nodded his head absentmindedly, with his eyes still rooted to the menu in front of him. "That's most likely the case… Hey—!"

Dean snatched his brother's menu away, forcing Sam to look at him. He pointed two fingers in front of his eyes, and said, "Focus, Sam, focus."

"I was paying attention, jerk."

"Bitch," Dean muttered, looking up as Betty returned with their coffee.

"Do ya'll know what you want?" she asked, placing her hands on her hips and forcing a polite smile. The lines around her eyes had darkened – a true sign that mentioning the Addison death wasn't the best approach to making instant friends in this town. Drastic change from their first impression of her.

"I'll have the pulled pork sub," Sam replied, and handed his menu to her.

Dean took a sip of his coffee, and almost choked. He refrained from making a scene and shook his head along with his hand, mouth still full of the stale, burnt liquid, indicating he wasn't hungry. When Betty left – but not without giving Dean a long look – he spit the coffee back into the mug, contorting his face. "Ah, shit. What do I have to do to get decent coffee on this trip?"

"It's not a Starbucks, that's for sure," Sam commented with a small smirk, pushing his own mug aside. He was smart enough not to taste his own, considering the reaction from Dean.

Shaking his head, Dean pushed Sam's mug toward him. "No. You have to endure the same torture as me."

"What? No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Yes."

"Stop being an ass," Sam said through clenched teeth.

Dean laughed, shit-eating grin plastered on his face. "It's so easy, especially with you, Sammy."

The youngest pursed his lips again before he changed the subject. "I think we should start with the families first. Interviewing them—"

"Interviewing? I have a feeling we won't get very far with it," Dean said, tipping his head toward the occupants in the restaurant. He refused to look and see if the men and women in the diner were still regarding him with such disconcerting interest, trying to forget about the feeling of eyes constantly on his back. "I'm sure these people will be tight-lipped about the truth."

"Then where do we start?"

"How about we find out where the girl lived – if it still exists?"

Sam shrugged. "There's not much about that on the internet aside from her history and the news articles of the deaths. I'm sure a few followers in the 'ghost seeking' world have tried to find her house. But I haven't been able to find any details. I wouldn't know where to start."

Sighing, Dean tapped the surface of the table with his fingers, and bit his lower lip as he thought of other ways to get the information they needed. Every idea turned up a dead end; their only option was to ask the residents of the town. "We have no choice then."

"Right," Sam agreed, nodding his head. "Let's just hope we don't find ourselves facing a brick wall along the way."

"You boys need more coffee?" Betty suddenly appeared, a pot full of the dark liquid swishing around when she held it up, causing Dean to screw his face in disgust.

"No thanks."

"Your sandwich will be out shortly, hon," Betty said to Sam. "And if you're still wonderin', you can find ole' Brian Addison at the Sherriff's station just up the street."

"Sherriff Addison…?" Dean's eyebrows rose in inquiry.

"That's right."

Sam and Dean exchanged a knowing look. "Thanks, Betty," Sam said, smiling. When she left for the third time, the youngest stared at Dean in surprise, his smile falling. "Sherriff, huh?"

"Our lucky day," Dean said derisively.

----

"Where did you say you boys were from again?"

"Little Rock," Dean answered, flashing the badge quickly. "We need to speak with Sherriff Addison."

The secretary eyed Dean suspiciously, her pen tapping a non-rhythmic beat on the countertop that divided the lobby from the office section of the station. She was a small woman, at least in her fifties, with a nose that was too big for her face and lips too small for her chin. Her light eyes were appraising Dean – up and down and up again, and seemed to approve of what she saw. Dean shifted his feet, glancing at Sam from the corner of his eye and leaned forward on the counter, giving the woman his most charming smile. Oh God, he thought, I can't believe I'm going to flirt with a woman that could be my mother. "Ma'am… In fact, do you have a name?"

"Don't try that with me, boy," she said quickly, her eyes narrowed and gauging. "I'm not some blonde bimbo you'd pick up in a bar down in the city."

Dean stepped back, his eyebrows raised in alarm. He heard Sam chuckling behind him and he frowned deeper. "I wasn't implying…"

"Sure," the secretary said slowly, the drawl in her accent making itself more apparent. Her eyes suddenly filled with mirth and a small smile, almost devious, spread across her lips. "Let me see your badge, too, hon." She was looking at Sam, her hand outstretched. Once she looked at Sam's badge, she nodded her head and shouted, "Addy! Ya got visitors!" She left the boys standing in the lobby, returning to her office without another word.

Dean shook his head, and muttered, "It just keeps getting better and better."

"You made your own bed with that one." Sam was still laughing, and Dean wanted nothing more than to wipe that silly grin off his brother's face. Lucky for Sam, the Sherriff emerged from the back office just in time to save the jerk from a beating.

Addison definitely fit the profile of your typical small town Sherriff: tall but medium build, sandy blonde hair with a little dusting of gray at the temples and light green eyes. He carried himself with a small measure of confidence, though Dean instantly noticed the fatigue in the man's stride as he approached the front counter. He slipped his bifocals off and regarded the two brothers with curiosity, but then his eyes widened slightly, and a mixture of fear and surprise filled his gaze. Addison looked away from Dean quickly, shaking his head as if to clear it, and asked, "What can I do for you boys?"

Dean cocked an eyebrow, pressing his lips in a thin line but he didn't answer. He was suddenly very tired of people in this town looking at him so peculiarly.

"We're with the CDC, investigating the pattern of deaths over the course of the past few years."

Addison stuffed his hands inside of his brown trousers and stared at the brothers with sudden disinterest. "My son just died of a heart attack. What more is there to tell?"

"And we're very sorry for your loss, Sherriff but this has been occurring for centuries. Can you explain that?" Dean asked.

The Sherriff straightened; his eyes dark and threatening. "I suggest you boys leave. This is a quiet town and we want to keep it that way."

Dean didn't even think before he blurted out. "Oh, is that so? Such a nice lil' town I'm sure. Then why is everyone kicking the bucket? They must be just 'dying' to stay – umph!" Pain suddenly flared up Dean's leg when Sam stomped on his foot, effectively silencing his brash comments from going any further. He shot his brother a dangerous glare, promising a lot of pain when they found a motel for the night.

"I'm sorry, Sherriff," Sam supplied quickly, flashing a nervous smile. "My partner is just tired from the long trip we made this morning."

Addison glared. "If I wanted CDC to come snooping around my town, I would've called. I want you out by morning – I mean it."

Dean was pulled, stumbling out of the Sherriff's station and toward the Impala, cursing under his breath the entire way. When they were inside the car, he slammed his fist against the dashboard, and shouted, "That son of a bitch! He's hiding something, too!"

"And you ruined our chance of getting something out of him by opening your mouth!"

Mouth agape, Dean stared at his brother incredulously. "That was rude."

Sam sighed wearily, leaning his head back against the seat. "We are back at square one."

"We never made it past that!"

"Exactly!" The younger brother raised his head and jabbed a finger at Dean. "Because you couldn't contain yourself once again."

"Oh, so this is all my fault?"

"It should be, but it's not."

"Then why do I feel like I'm getting the blame for everything?"

"Because I'm tired and pissed," Sam justified, closing his eyes. "I hate dead ends."

Staring ahead, Dean said softly, "Me too."

The Impala purred to life when Sam turned the ignition. He sat idle for a moment, hand on the gearshift and a frown marring his youthful features. Dean watched him silently as he shook his head, and said, "Let's just find a motel for the night and figure this out in the morning."

They found a lodge just five miles north of Cave City; a rustic log cabin that smelled of cedar and berry scented candles. The nightly fees were higher than the brothers were used to, but being the closest one to town without driving fifty miles out of the way, they settled in comfortably.

Dean collapsed on the bed he claimed, knees bent and legs hanging over the edge as he laced his fingers behind his head and stared at the ceiling. The fan above whirled around in a lazy circle, every so often making a high-pitched groan, but easily ignored as Dean's mind wandered. He couldn't stop thinking about the townspeople, and how they reacted around him. Why such an interest? Did he look like someone they knew? Most likely, there were quite a few expressions of recognition in the crowd. But it still gave Dean a bad taste in his mouth – he didn't like it. Maybe he was just tired, maybe even a little paranoid. In their line of work, it paid off to be even the slightest bit paranoid now and again. Did he really have anything— He sat up when Sam slapped him on the knee in passing, eyes narrowed when his thoughts were interrupted. "What?"

"You okay?"

Lying back down, Dean blinked hard as he focused on the fan again. "Just thinking…"

"About?"

Dean shook his head, and straightened. "These people, Sammy. I just have this feeling…"

The other bed squeaked under Sam's weight when he sat down. He leaned forward, and started unlacing his boots. "Do you think we should give up?"

"No. Dad told us to never back out on a job," Dean said. He rubbed his eyes tiredly, placing his elbows on his knees. "We just have to push and push until we find the answers we need to figure this thing out."

"If these people don't chase us out of here with guns waving," Sam said with a small smile. "So, what do we do next?"

"Go back to Addison—"

"Dean," Sam started, "That didn't exactly work today."

"That's why you'll do all the talking. I won't even be there. You're good at convincing people to talk."

Sam rolled his eyes, though he nodded his head in agreement. "That's true."

"You didn't have to agree with me, asshole," Dean said jokingly.

"What will you do in the meantime?"

Dean plowed his fingers through his hair, mussing up the spikes on top, and yawned. "I'll interview other people. See if the stories match up." His stomach suddenly rumbled andhe frowned.

"You haven't eaten all day."

"Thank you Captain Obvious for your intellectual observation," Dean said, grinning as he scooted off the edge of the bed and stood. "I need some M&M's." He remembered having a small stash of the candy left in the car.

Sam snorted and shook his head. "M&M's? Oh yeah… what a nutritious meal."

"Shut up, bitch. It'll tie me over until I can get some beer."

His brother laughed, lying back on the mattress. "You're so pathetic."

Dean checked the clip in his Kimber .45, and kicked Sam hard in the shin. His brother yelped, but he was out the door before Sam could get his own revenge, curses and promises of a slow death following Dean onto the small front porch. He shook his head and laughed softly. He hid the gun under the hem of his T-shirt, and behind his back – the weight of the weapon giving him a sense of security even if the walk to the Impala was only a few steps across the gravel driveway. "Always be prepared," John Winchester would say, "Never let your guard down because in the darkness there is always something waiting to strike."

The M&M stash inside the car was minimal, but it was enough to last Dean until the morning. He stuffed a handful in his mouth, shouldered the car door closed and walked back toward the cabin. But he froze in the middle of reaching the porch steps when the gravel behind, and just to the left of him crunched under the weight of a person's shoe. With his hand on the gun, Dean turned with the weapon raised just in time to see a baseball bat sailing toward his face. There was no time to shout a warning to Sam before darkness invaded, and he ceased to know anything at all.

TBC…