AN: I am having so much fun building a kind of mystery! I hope you enjoy it too.

Kudos to radpineapple for a great and correct guess about something revealed in this chapter.

Made smoother, more understandable and just better through the efforts of Janice.

* * *

Sam held the stupid book against his chest with his arms wrapped around it to protect it from the snow on the short walk from the car back into the house. On one hand, Dean supposed he should be excited about their discovery because they might just get some answers instead of more questions. But on the other, it wasn't until Sam had up and grabbed the thing that Dean had really considered how reckless they'd been.

It wasn't that Dean had never been in charge of planning a hunt, because he had. He'd gone after things alone too, and with only Sam at his side. The difference was that he'd always had his fail-safe. Dad had always looked over and approved Dean's plans and preparations (and more often than not, told him how to improve them). He'd always been the one to give the final okay. Now not only was Dad like 1300 miles away, he had no idea what they were doing or, worse, where they were doing it. Dean had let himself get lulled into thinking that this wasn't a real hunt but just an exercise in research that would keep the little geek distracted through the bad weather.

But that justification had grown thin fast and had disappeared completely when more omens or whatever they were had happened overnight to mark the full moon. Dean, though, like a complete amateur, had continued to act like they were just taking some Sunday afternoon stroll. They'd gone into the mansion without scouting it a single time and without knowing what they were potentially after. They'd just walked right in the front door, and he'd let Sam grab some old book that could be anything and have any kind of traps or curses attached to it. (Let's face it – nobody went to that much trouble to hide Charlotte's Web.) And not a living soul knew where they were or how to find them if something went wrong.

So yeah, Dean was feeling a great deal of guilt right about now. He was supposed to be the adult here.

"Wait," he snapped when Sam set the book down reverently and went to open it. He winced inwardly at how much his tone sounded like Dad's. Sam sighed softly but held up his hands like he was saying, Okay, I'm waiting. Now what?

"We aren't doing a single thing more until after we call…" Dammit, Sam. Stop with the big eyes. "...Caleb." Dean wasn't giving in. Really. He was just following what they'd agreed to earlier. "Depending on what he says, we may have to call Dad," Dean warned, mollified when Sam nodded.

They sat at the table with the phone on speaker between them. Dean selected the contact Snake, chosen in deference to Caleb's beloved cowboy boots that he claimed were "gen-u-wine snakeskin."

"James Dean," greeted the familiar voice after just one ring.

Dean pictured their friend with those boots propped on whatever furniture he could reach, ankles crossed indolently.

"Hey, Caleb! Sam's here too."

"Yo, Sammy." Sam didn't answer and Dean rolled his eyes but stayed silent, knowing how this song went. "Don't be like that, Yosemite," Caleb wheedled. When Sam still stayed silent, he tried yet again. "Samwise, how are ya?" Nothing. "Aren't you gonna say hi, Samuel?" Sam didn't budge and Caleb sighed, sounding put-upon. "Fine. Hi, Sam."

"Hi, Caleb," Sam answered instantly.

"If you two are done with your stand-up routine, we actually called for a reason," Dean growled, also trying to sound more annoyed than he was.

"Shoot, Tex."

"What's all this crap about blue moons and black moons and the equinox? It all looks like gibberish to me," Dean said casually.

"Ah, Johnnie has you doin' his research but hasn't spilled the beans, eh?" Caleb guessed. Neither Winchester corrected the assumption. "Well, you might as well know. You ain't gonna see nothing like this again in your lifetime. See, there's been all kinds o' prophesies and shit about the convergence of all these phases on the Ides of March. Hunters have known about it for – Hell – way longer than I care to think of. Somethin's supposed to be woke or born and come to power on the equinox. Luckily, we got us some notion of where to look. It all has to do with the Salem diaspora." Caleb's thick Texan accent rendered the last word DIE-as-per-uh.

"What's the Salem diaspora?" asked Sam eagerly, leaning forward like that would convince Caleb to keep talking.

"Well, Salem's a hub. A place where a buncha ley lines come together. Witches can't get enough. So every so often, Hunters gotta go there and clean out the rats. The witch trials were a mess cuz the real witches got outta there ahead of time, like the cockroaches they are." They heard him spit. He felt the same way about witches as Dean did, though he'd never said exactly why he hated them in particular.

"But in...I don't remember. 1800's somewhere, a whole posse rousted the witches. Some got away, and we know they followed the ley lines, cuz the power they give ya's addictive, supposedly. Through some figgerin' by the brainiacs and some persuasion o' witches that were caught, we caught on that one of those witches had a monster egg – somethin' legendary, supposedly – and it hid along the ley line. It's gonna hatch on the equinox."

Sam mouthed "an egg" at Dean. His eyes were wide.

"How do you know where the ley lines go?" Dean asked, proud of how even he kept his voice. He was familiar with the concept of the invisible, naturally-occurring lines of mystic power running like veins of ore all over the world. They amplified any magic done in their proximity, or that was the rumor anyway.

"Gotta a spell to tell us where the far end is," Caleb drawled. "And we know they start in Salem. Hell, there's only two other hubs in the whole U. S. of A. – one in Kansas that nobody can quite find, and one a hundred feet off the coast of Alaska that's only helpful for aquatic Eskimos."

Nobody laughed. "Hey, don't worry about it," Caleb encouraged, obviously thinking they were concerned about the 'something legendary' he was after. "I know this is big shit, but we got a pair o' Hunters on each line. Singer and Turner. Creaser and Jefferson. Franklin and Hawkins. Hollister...shit, there's more too I can't remember. We got this thing blanketed, boys." He chuckled. "Pretty sure I got the golden ticket, though. This sucker runs all the way to Utica, but I found some weird shit in Schenectady that makes me think that's it. 'Sides, there's been noise about the Berkshire Mountains for long as I can remember.

"But don't worry about me. I ain't got your pop for backup, but Singer and Turner are within spittin' distance if it gets hairy."

Dean's mouth was dry, and Sam looked like one of those crazy tarsier monkeys with the gigantic eyes.

Luckily, Caleb kept talking. "Hey – you boys ain't anywhere nearby all this, are ya? I know Johnny's sidelined, but where did you rugrats end up?"

"Pittsfield," Dean blurted. Great. Now he was beyond complicity. He was well into doing one of the dumbest things in his whole life, and there were quite a few to choose from. (Adding marshmallows to ramen was one. Letting Sam drive the Impala when he was 10 – and getting caught – was up there, too. Playing mumblety-peg with a real knife, ending up with a victory and 8 stitches had to make the list.) He couldn't even really say why the lie had rolled so readily off his lips, but if the egg really existed and had been hidden in the walls of the Houghton Mansion and had already hatched, ahead of its March 15 deadline, lying about where they were and not telling any Hunters what they suspected might top Dean's whole list of dumb.

That was a lot of ifs, Dean consoled himself. What they were tracking couldn't be the egg because the timing was all wrong. Except...what if it was?

There was rustling over the line. Dean stared at the phone and avoided looking at Sam. "Pittsfield? Yeah, you're fine. Listen, I'll call ya when it's all done if ya want. But don't worry about it. Take more than a Minotaur or some shit to take me out!" He laughed. Sam and Dean laughed along, with the barest edge of hysteria in the sound.

"If it's a Minotaur, you better take a picture of it," Sam demanded and if you didn't know him, you might have bought the calm tone of his demand. Caleb was fooled, probably aided by the tinny phone transmission, because he just dropped a few casual insults and rang off.

Dean finally looked up. He wondered if the 15-year-old would actually be the voice of reason. (It wasn't completely unheard of, but it was unlikely.) But Sam wasn't looking at Dean with censure or even the shock he'd been wearing earlier. No, he was grinning. He looked nervous and eager and excited and like Dean had just saved a dozen kittens from a burning house.

Yeah. And that was why Dean had lied to Caleb. This was their hunt.

Without a word, Sam jumped up, jammed his feet in his boots, palmed the keys and ducked outside. He was back thirty seconds later with the atlas that they always carried. Still silent, he opened it to "Massachusetts and surrounding states." Using one of his library books as a straight edge, Sam lightly drew a pencil line from Salem, Massachusetts to Utica, New York then bit his lip. The line passed right through Schenectady, as Caleb had said.

It also went directly over North Adams.

WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER

Dean spent the next day and a half quietly freaking out. The venerable Albert Houghton had abruptly left a very successful life to follow a previously-unknown (and dying) relative to North Adams and a ley line. He'd acquired a bodyguard and built a house with a secret compartment surrounded by powerful arcane symbols. He'd spent the last days of his life alternating between babbling in some unknown language and begging for 'it' (a monster egg, holy shit, a monster egg) to be moved off the ley line before the right day could arrive. And something big had busted out of the side of that same house now, when all kinds of moon phases and shit were converging in a way that had astronomers and astrologists alike wetting themselves with excitement.

A whole coterie of Hunters, despite being famously opposed to working in groups, had converged to try to locate whatever hatched, crouching on various ley lines like spiders waiting for prey. Nervous spiders, Dean would bet. Caleb had once laughed when facing down a hodag the size of a T-rex, yet there had been an edge of trepidation in his voice Dean had never heard before as Caleb said he was pretty sure that he was on the correct ley line.

And oh yeah whatever was supposed to hatch was so badass that its emergence would be marked by signs. Like, say, red lightning, freak storms, a dozen yew trees making a flipping arrow pointing to the tallest mountain in the area. And he and Sam were at the epicenter of it all. Not only that, but Dean felt an overwhelming desire to keep all of their information to themselves, to stay put right in North Adams, and to continue the hunt on their own. Their own.

Down, deep in his gut, in the place that never lied to him, Dean knew that this was something that he and Sam needed to do. He wasn't stupid. He was well aware of compulsions and glamours and spells that could mess with your brain. But this didn't feel like that. Dean had no idea how he knew that, and he should probably distrust every thought he had. Should probably flee North Adams with his brother in shotgun and call Dad and Bobby and Caleb on their way to Oregon or somewhere else far, far from here.

He didn't, of course.

He cleaned every weapon they'd brought. He drove around and mapped out every single street in the entire town. He made nice with Julia who worked at the corner bistro and made her shaker sweater look as sexy as any bikini. He avoided making definite plans because an itch in his skull wouldn't let him leave Sam overnight and Julia's assets were worth at least that amount time. (Sam had been staying on his own in far more dangerous places since he was 8 years old, and yet...)

Dean helped a hapless, beer-bellied man change a flat tire while the guy's kids cheered from inside the minivan. He shoveled the walk and driveway when the snow stopped falling, then shoveled for the nearest neighbor because she was 75 if she was a day. (Dean hated shoveling snow with a passion but decided it was worth every detestable moment when "call me Gret" repaid him with the best freaking boysenberry pie he'd ever tasted.) He even found a small-time local bookie and made a couple hundred on the Spurs and Lakers games. (He considered putting some money on the upcoming March Madness but didn't want to throw away money if they were gone before he could get a payout. Besides, it looked to him like perennial favorite Duke was going to run the table. The tourney was only good for making money when you could find an outlier to ride.)

Basically, Dean tried to burn energy and not think. He didn't want to think about what might be out there putting Gret and the nice librarian and suburban dude and his kids in danger. Or what was worth the attention of so many experienced Hunters. He didn't want to think about underdogs and taking on something "legendary" with only a teenager at his side. Or how he might be putting Sam at risk by his actions.

He really didn't want to think about why he hadn't warned anybody, not even Dad when he called for a check-in that involved more grousing about being "trapped" in the rectory hiding from well-meaning parishioners of Pastor Jim's than actually checking how Sam and Dean were. Dad's grumpiness was a blessing, really. Dean had no idea how many spokes the ley line hub had or if Dad knew exactly where they passed, so it was just as well the words North Adams never had to come out of Dean's mouth. And that he didn't have to say much at all. When Dad was focused, he was a scarily accurate lie detector.

Dean felt guilty that he didn't feel more guilty at the end of the phone call for having kept his mouth shut. He didn't keep any important shit from Dad ever. Not about hunts, anyway. It was about thing number 386 that was messed up about the whole situation.

Dean attempted to talk himself down. Nobody had died, right? Not so much as a cocker spaniel had gone missing. No more weird-ass omens were happening, and Dean had been asking around. That had to mean things were copacetic, so there was no reason to tell anyone anything. Right? Right?

Yeah, even Dean didn't buy it.

As opposed to Dean's hyperactivity, Sam went all hermit studying the book he'd plucked from the thrice-cursed house like it was the first issue of Hustler he'd ever seen. Or like it was a matter of life-or-death. Which it might be, actually.

It was slow going, even for boy wonder. The whole thing was hand-written, the script changing every so often as if someone new had taken over scribe duties. The differing hands also had differing levels of neatness. The first part of the book, over half, was faded to the point of complete illegibility. The next part was in "German or Dutch, I think" according to Sam and he had to skip it.

But even the English portion mystified him at first. Dean, who had worked in a few oil change places, identified the format first. "Looks like maintenance logs," he commented while chowing down on pie, forgetting in his culinary enjoyment that he wasn't talking or thinking about anything that had to do with Houghtons or ley lines.

"You're right!" Sam read avidly for a good ten more minutes before clarifying. "These are dates with a list of what rituals or spells or wardings or something were performed. Maybe...to hide something?"

"Or keep it from hatching," Dean suggested, then was grumpy for letting himself be drawn into the discussion and left on some imaginary errand...after a few more bites of pie. He didn't even know what a boysenberry was, but it could be made out of pig assholes for all he cared if tasted like that.

Sam, being Sam, was undeterred by Dean's avoidance and not only learned a lot more, but took the time to share his findings with Dean whenever he was around.

The final section of the book was the first one Sam had found with a name attached, and that name was the very familiar Hon. Albert Charles Houghton. Also unlike the others, Al the rebel recorded things other than the mysterious spells or whatever they were and the dates they were done. Turns out, he had known nothing of his mother's heritage until the sickly old uncle had showed up saying that his sons and brothers were all dead so Al had to take over the family legacy.

Creepy Uncle had framed it as protecting the world from a great evil. His tasks were as follows: Keep the great egg (which Al graphically described as "mottled, bulbous, the color of a deep bruise, and constantly shifting and pulsing beneath the shell") on the ley line. Faithfully recite the necessary words every seventh week. Redraw the symbols around its hiding place every nineteenth day. Never tell anyone about it except whoever he chose to be his successor and Widders, who would help keep him safe from crazed cult of men who wanted the beast, never named, freed. He was given additional symbols to put around the door of his home to help hide him from such men.

Al was told that he was keeping people safe. He believed it for a long time, too, but the magnate and statesman hadn't become such a success because he was stupid or naive. He recorded his own research over time, a process which ultimately took most of his life. He came to believe, to his horror, that he was just protecting the thing until it was ready to hatch and wreak havoc. He didn't dare stop the rites he'd been given, concerned that doing so might allow the monster to hatch or even strengthen it somehow.

Albert dedicated himself to finding a way to destroy it for good before he died. "My years grow long, and I would not leave such a burden on any of my dear daughters or their husbands, nor any friends," he'd written emphatically. "Yet I am determined that I shall not be party to such a pernicious plot. I have never taken a man's life and refuse to allow a single soul to be in danger because of my ignorant actions. Thus I shall do what I must to obtain further information."

Al hadn't enjoyed that search for information at all. He called the people he "was forced to consort with" everything from "boils on the underbelly of humanity" to "fetid reprobates." (Al might get a little flowery, but Dean might just kind of like him – if he were listening to Sam's reading.)

It was Sunday evening and Dean was cleaning the heating element of the oven so it would work more efficiently and wishing it was warm enough to be doing maintenance on his baby instead when Sam gasped aloud. He'd been whistling along to Arlo Guthrie on the radio, while Dean contemplated (not for the first time) how they were even related.

"Dean, you have to listen to this!" Sam demanded. He straightened from his bent position over the book he'd become so obsessed with. His eyes were bright with both surprise and the light of discovery "I think maybe Mr. Houghton was killed by Hunters."

"What?" Dean was intrigued in spite of himself. "He was one of the good guys, I thought. Pulled into baby-sitting super monster egg but trying to fix it."

"Yeah, yeah. But remember how he was talking to all kinds of people 'of ill intent' to try to learn more? Well, a while back he wrote he was worried that his 'inquiries have garnered the wrong sort of attention.' There were a couple of attempts on his life in 1913, but Widders always got the other guy first. Then they managed to capture one attacker. Widders convinced Albert that they should interrogate the guy. And the guy who 'carried an astounding array of weapons' called Albert a witch and said that he was dedicated to putting down abominations like him. He wouldn't listen to anything they said to him, just yelling at them 'as if he were rabid' whenever they tried. He eventually escaped, and of course Albert was afraid he would try again. That was two weeks before the car accident. Oh, and they held the guy in the barn basement, where Widders eventually killed himself."

Dean sighed. It certainly sounded like well-meaning Hunters had indeed caused the 'accident.'

"I bet Widders had help to quote unquote kill himself," Dean reasoned. He could see from Sam's expression that the teen had come to the same conclusion. "Meaning they were after witches but ended up taking out the people who were trying to stop," he waved a dirty hand around, "everything."

"I guess the protections held all this time," Sam said doubtfully. "Or maybe it was just waiting for the right combination of moon phases and stuff to hatch." He kept flipping carefully through the rest of the pages, which were empty. "Hey, there's something written on the last page," he reported. "Looks like Albert's handwriting."

Dean walked over to look at it over Sam's shoulder, but it was written in Greek. They knew the Greek alphabet but no Greek words. Well, except ouzo.

Sam began to sound it out anyway, speaking the unknown words slowly. A chill ran up Dean's spine for no reason that he could discern. Sam finished and Dean grabbed the back of his chair heedless of the black marks he was leaving on it. There wasn't the distinctive pop in the air and ozone taste Dean associated with magic, but still, something had fluttered under his skin.

"Sammy, did you…?"

Sam looked at Dean and gulped. "Feel like someone just walked over my grave? Yeah."

"Find out what that means," Dean ordered, though he knew that they didn't own a Greek dictionary and the library wasn't exactly open on a Sunday night. They'd have to wait until after school and work on Monday, which made him feel sick to his stomach. "I'm gonna...I'll be right back," he said and gave his hands a half-hearted wipe on the rag he'd been using.

Dean stepped just outside and leaned his shoulders against wall right next to the door. He gripped the phone so hard that its edges dug into his hand. It was time to call Dad, Bobby, anybody. He lifted the phone to dial.

It was the right thing to do. It was what he'd been taught. Most importantly, it was the safest thing for Sammy.

It made no sense, but Dean couldn't do it.

It didn't feel like a compulsion. It felt like Dean was making a decision based on things he knew but couldn't articulate. He knew, like he knew his own name, like he knew how to charm a cute chick or strip a Glock or make Sam laugh, that he and Sam were supposed to be there. That the two of them were needed.

And if he tried to tell Dad any of that, he'd be ordered to pack Sammy up and get the hell out of there and I mean yesterday.

Dean lowered the phone and stuffed his hands in his pockets. Dean blew out a long breath, watching it mist and hang. He tapped the back of his head lightly against the wall a few times, looking up at the cold, indigo sky. "What the hell have you gotten into, Winchester?" he asked himself. But though he stayed out there until he couldn't feel his toes, he didn't find any answers.

* * *

AN: More notes than I probably need. Heh.

Just for fun, I included the names of some of the Hunters that have been seen or referred to on the show: Bobby Singer, Rufus Turner, Martin Creaser, Jefferson (no other name), Irv Franklin, Annie Hawkins, and Jerry Hollister. Bobby and Rufus probably everyone knows. Martin was the one who was in the mental health facility and eventually was killed by Benny when he refused to accept that there could be a good vampire. Jefferson is only mentioned but never seen. Irv Franklin was shot and killed by Abaddon's soldier-inhabiting demons. Annie Hawkins died in the Van Ness house and kind of taught Bobby how to be a ghost. Jerry Hollister was one of the Hunters who helped Sam take over the British Men of Letters' stateside headquarters, though he died in the process. (*cough* red shirt *cough*)

Kathy: I was thinking of you when I made the end author's notes for this chapter, knowing that you like to read that stuff. I really, really mixed fact and fiction in this story more than most with some real places and people and stuff. The joke about the Impala came from my family. My mom was such a wordsmith and my sisters and brother and I all take after to her to some extent, so my dad, a retired farmer, has always joked about being "the dumb one." (He is SO NOT dumb, which he does know, I think.) He has always said that the biggest word he knows in carburetor. Anyway, I'm getting distracted. Glad that it doesn't feel slow to you...it's something I'm always worried about.And as for adding details about the food and stuff, I always picture scenes in so much detail that it's super simple for me to over do it on the specifics. It's so nice to hear that you don't think that's happening. Thanks for the wonderful comments that always make me smile!

Colby's girl: I'm so glad! I always, always worry that my stories are too slow and involved. Probably always will, but comments like yours help. In fact, this entire comment is absolutely wonderful. I read it over and over because I'm all insecure like that. I made note of all of the things that you thought worked well and hopefully that means similar things will show up in the rest of the story. Brr on the icicles. I remember taking a coworker who grew up in the Philippines sledding for the first time and he was astounded that the scarf over his mouth froze. Oh, and there's this big winter storm in the states right now and it makes this big "u" around our whole state...there will be snow to the east, west, and south, but NOT HERE. I may have done a happy dance about that.

WastedJamie: Oh, thank you, thank you! *sends virtual hugs* Yeah, John is going to be real happy with the boys at the end of this one, I'm sure. Heh. It's fun to write about Sam and Dean at these ages, so it's fabulous that you and others like to read it. :-)

bagelcat1: Yeah, I figured people wouldn't know what a "unicursal hexagram" even looked like...I didn't know the word unicursal myself. I'm with you on Dean being really smart too, whether or not he sees it that way. It's a foible of mine that I make sure that Dean always makes some of the discoveries or deductions and Sam always gets some licks in on the bad guy and neither is shut out of the other's wheelhouse entirely. (Wow...that sentence kinda got away from me. I hope it makes sense!) Paternal is such a good word to use for the way Dean sees Sam, especially when Sam was still so young. Glad you liked the Kool-Aid man thing! It seemed like a reference they might make, seeing a hole in a wall like that. Thank you for your kind words.

sylvia37: Thank you tons! I hope you still like the ways the story and mystery are unraveling.

sfaulkenberry: Oh my gosh, you make me laugh! When I was reading your comment, I heard Cas' little oh-so-unimpressed "yay" after Crowley said "together again." LOL I too might well risk life and limb for a book. When we moved, we handled most stuff ourselves, but hired a couple guys and a truck specifically for the piano...and the books. There were/are that many. I'm not even sorry!

muffinroo: I would love to take credit for the chapter titles, but I can't. Janice inspired them. It makes me happy that the boys 'feel' right to you. I keep editing things when I write Sam too much like the competent adult he becomes. Like, hey, self, don't be a moron...Sam didn't know fill-in-the-blank at age 15! Thank you for your encouragement.

radpineapple: Sputter, blush.You are just too nice. It doesn't matter why you knew the reference, just that you did! I really mixed facts up with my fiction in this one because the real story has so much meat to it already. I was hoping it felt like early season SPN, so that's wonderful to hear. I think the reason you don't always figure thing out is because I have a very strange brain, but it could be because I don'tput enough clues in there! I'm waiting to see if anyone figures out the monster in this one because I'm definitely dropping hints, though some of them are pretty small. The major clues are in the next chapter after this one, so there's a chance someone will get it...not sure, but I have awfully smart readers. Thanks again for building up a totally insecure writer!

Long Live BRUCAS: They should be calling for help...but of course, they're not, because I have a nasty habit of putting them in danger. Glad you're enjoying the story so far!

stedan: Ah, but it's my favorite record! LOL But seriously, I love reading your reviews because they're a wonderful ego boost. You are just so nice and positive every time.

Timelady66: Ha! They really are! I loved those books when I was a kid. (And Nancy Drew and Trixie Beldon, and I even read an ancient series called the Happy Hollisters that was similar but not as good.) And yeah, I love the guys at any age and time period, but there's something nice about them without any of the huge burdens or massive guilt (OR self-hatred) that they come to carry later.

Guest: At the outset of this story, I had a conversation with the lovely woman who beta's for me and told her that I was worried that my stories were getting formulaic, predictable, and boring. She reassured me (as she does so well) and your comment did too. Thank you! I'm not sure that commenters know just how much their words mean, but I am grateful.