Chapter 2: Getting Acquainted

Buttonwood. Friday, April 8, 2005.

"That was depressing," Neal said, pouring himself a mug of coffee from the coffeemaker in the parlor. Sam smiled in sympathy, his eyes focused on the display of his laptop.

The results of their canvassing were not encouraging. Everywhere more cases were popping up. Any man eighteen and older appeared to be at risk. So far no women had been discovered to be similarly afflicted, although there were a few whom Neal would have to classify as having chronic symptoms.

He'd seen plenty of examples of the adult male population running amok—guys painting mustaches on posters, chasing each other with fly swatters. Three elderly men staged an impromptu clown act on Main Street, oblivious to the traffic. He considered it one of his few successes for the day that he'd managed to persuade them to move their act to the sidewalk. After the clown incident, Sam's alarm over the phenomenon escalated dramatically. He urged an immediate return to the inn so he could research dorks on the web.

Mozzie, along with the rest of the afflicted men at the inn, was corralled in the TV lounge with concerned women taking turns monitoring them. Janet had gone upstairs to rest.

Neal sprawled on the sofa watching Sam work. When he wasn't hunched over his laptop, he pored over an old journal. The book appeared to have gone through several wars with many of the pages on the verge of falling out. Sam resisted Neal's attempts to learn more about the journal, but he managed to sneak the occasional peek. Surprisingly, much of it was written in Latin.

During their afternoon reconnaissance, he'd been able to extract a few details about Sam. He'd attended Stanford but dropped out when he was a senior. He gave up on his plans to go to law school so he could join his brother on the road.

Neal sensed the cause was some traumatic event, and he could relate. He'd run away before graduating from high school and spent the next few years drifting with his cousin Henry. In 2003 in a moment of clarity, he gave up on his goal to become the world's preeminent con artist, thief, and forger and began working for the FBI instead. What Sam and Dean were doing with their lives was less obvious. Was it simply investigating strange phenomena? Who would do that? What would they live on? They weren't spending much on clothes, but still . . .

"No other outbreaks in New Jersey," Sam reported. "The effect appears to be localized to Buttonwood." He paused and glanced over at Neal. "You told me you're a consultant for White Collar at the FBI? What do you advise them on?"

"Art thefts, frauds, and forgeries mainly. What do you call your profession or is researching weird occurrences a hobby?"

Sam hesitated a moment. "You could say we're in the family business."

He didn't elaborate but Neal was interrupted from questioning him further by Dean and Peter's return.

"That's a dream machine," Peter said. "You have it purring like a kitten." Dean acknowledged the praise with a satisfied shrug. Neal was impressed. He assumed they would have been at each other's throats by now.

Peter turned to Neal. "That Impala we saw? It's theirs."

That explained it. Auto diplomacy. If it had been an Aston Martin like James Bond drove in Die Another Day, Neal would have understood. Now that was a car.

They spent several minutes reviewing what they'd learned. The earliest cases appeared on Monday morning with the most recent victims developing symptoms on Thursday. Based on the sampling they'd conducted, Neal estimated that about half of the adult male population was afflicted.

"The only other item that popped out," Peter added, "was an unusually high number of will-o'-wisps this spring. Some of them have even been spotted in town. It's also been a record year for spring peepers. Some of the women claim that it's the noise of the peepers that have driven their men goofy."

"We heard that too," Neal said. "One woman played a recording, and I can see where they could be annoying, but if that were the cause, women would be affected too."

"Find anything on the web?" Dean asked Sam.

He nodded in Peter's direction. "We'll talk later."

"No you're not," Peter ordered. "If you have any ideas, we want to hear them."

"All right," Sam said with a shrug. "But go easy on the wisecracks. To have so many afflicted, I suspect a targeted manipulation. Most likely someone's cast a spell. Sounds like a man-hater to me—a witch, Jezebel, or succubus."

Dean nodded, scratching his chin. "Some craggy hag in the swamp has targeted Buttonwood? We should search for hex bags."

"But I've never heard of hex bags being used on so many victims," Sam said worriedly. "And supposing for the moment there is a witch here, why would she target someone like Mozzie who just arrived in town? To me, it looks like there's some other force at work."

"What about the will-o'-wisps?" Neal asked. "Could they be involved?"

"It's a strong possibility," Sam agreed. "Will-o'-wisps, or ghost lights as they're called, have been associated with malicious spirits in many cultures such as the Hitodama in Japan, but there's no record of any man-haters among them."

"You're treating these myths like they're real," Peter objected.

"Look, you asked for our opinion, and we're giving it," Dean said. "Just because you've been lucky enough not to run into demons doesn't mean they don't exist. Will-o'-wisps or spring peepers could be acting as agents of a witch or man-hating demon, but what set her off?"

Peter turned to Neal. "These guys are as fruit-loopy as Mozzie. Surely you don't believe them?"

"What other ideas do we have?" Neal challenged. "Would you rather believe that space aliens have invaded and are taking over our bodies? They're going to conquer Earth with an army of dorks. If Mozzie were only in his right mind, that's what he'd be saying."

"That's as reasonable a theory as man-hating demons," Peter countered. "What do you think, Dean?"

But Dean was in no mood to answer. He was sitting back, eyeing a chick who'd just walked in. She had long auburn hair and was wearing a tight turquoise sweater, black leather short skirt, and black suede boots.

Sam glanced up from his laptop. "Earth to Dean."

"Check her out, Sam. Have you interviewed her?"

"Not yet."

"Well, in the quest of thoroughness, we need to." He stood up while Neal sat back to enjoy the show. But Dean had barely started talking with her when Janet entered the parlor, seeking an update. Neal filled her in, helped by Peter. They left out the speculation on witches but stuck to a simple description of what they'd observed. Peter stressed several times that they were sticking to the facts.

Janet was discouraged but not surprised. She glanced over at Dean. "What's he doing with Chloe?"

"You know her?" Sam asked. "What can you tell us about her?" He was wise to ask. From the way Dean was smiling at her, he probably wouldn't share anything for a while.

"Her name's Chloe Bishop," Janet said. "She was already here when we arrived on Monday. She mainly stays in her room but I did have a chance to talk with her shortly after we arrived. She said she was a technical writer, but she also writes urban fantasies. She must be good. She's had several published."

#

Cecilia Hepburn in Buttonwood? Dean had been prepared to leave the men of Buttonwood to their curse, but no longer. This investigation could take several days, maybe more. Too bad their conversation was interrupted by her cell phone ringing. He was just getting started.

He returned to the table. "That's Cecilia Hepburn. I thought she looked familiar but couldn't place her."

"No, that's Chloe Bishop," Janet corrected. "I'm sure I got her name right."

"Her pen name is Cecilia Hepburn. I've read all her books about Zoe the Demon Slayer. She writes some terrific stuff."

A grin spread over Burke's face. "You read urban fantasies?"

"We stay in some pretty remote spots. The nights can get long." Not that he needed to explain himself to a fed. What did Burke do on stakeouts? Organize his wanted posters?

Sam wasn't fooled. "Did she have any useful information or did you just ask for her autograph?"

Janet broke in. "What am I supposed to do with Mozzie? Should I try to get him to return to New York and see a psychiatrist?" They'd succeeded in calming her down earlier, but she was back to looking more harried by the minute.

Sam shook his head. "Your friend's best hope is to stay in Buttonwood. If you take him away, he may never be cured."

Neal stood up. "I'll get us checked in."

"They may not have any rooms available," Janet warned. "With the jamboree tomorrow, most rooms are taken."

Dean wavered for a moment. He'd be closer to Chloe if they stayed at the inn. But the Winchesters living in frou-frou central? Nah, not gonna happen. "We saw a motel on our way into town that's more our style. We'll try our luck there."

Burke wasn't saying anything. He had a sour expression on his face like he'd eaten too many burritos. Dean had seen that same expression earlier. The guy needed to carry antacids around with him.

"What's bothering you?" Neal asked.

"How are we going to protect ourselves from coming down with the same symptoms?"

"Some of the men are fine," Neal pointed out. "The last case we heard of was on Thursday. The witch may have grown bored and moved on."

Dean blew that argument away. "More likely this is a warm-up act for something worse to come. Burke's right. The longer you stay in town, the more likely you are to get possessed, infected, or whatever the hell is causing this curse. We haven't discovered any way to protect you. Janet's safe, but you're not."

"What about you?" Burke demanded. "You're running the same risk."

"We're used to it," Sam said. "This is nothing compared to what we usually face."

"I can't allow it," Burke said, shaking his head. "We should call in the CDC and the EPA. Maybe there's something in the water or a contagion—"

"—That affects only adult men?" Dean said incredulously. "Get real. You two should leave now. Janet has your contact information. She can call you when it's safe to return. Let us do our job."

"I'm not going to abandon Mozzie," Neal protested.

"You don't know how to fight these things," Sam argued. "We do."

"And what makes you think you can fight them?" Burke had put his hands on his hips and was giving them a no-nonsense look that might work with his agents, but not with John Winchester's sons.

"Because of the river of crap we fight every day," Dean said, glaring right back at him. "We deal with demons that would send you screaming to the nuthouse. The men are harmless now, but things could quickly turn ugly. You should get out while you can."

He thought he'd put an end to it. Dean didn't blame them for wanting to stay around to help their friend, but they were out of their league. Burke looked like he could take care of himself. But his consultant? Neal might be able to spot a forgery, but against a witch or demon, he'd just be another innocent they'd have to protect.

And Dean wasn't exaggerating about the risk they were running. What first seemed like a joke was giving him a bad feeling. For any curse to affect so many people, the demon causing it had to be a powerful one. Those missing person reports Sam had found were an itch that wouldn't go away. Were they dorks who'd wandered off?

The two feds didn't back down though. Sam's attempts to talk them out of it simply made them more determined to stay. Neal refused to leave his friend. And Burke? He was probably staying because he didn't trust them. Fine. The Winchesters had made truces with cops before. They never lasted for long, but having a couple of temporary allies wasn't a bad thing.

Burke could look into the missing person reports. He'd have an easier time getting the local cops to open up. Hard to see what Neal could do except help Janet babysit his weird friend. But Sam appeared to enjoy working with him. So, it was settled. They'd face the dorks of Buttonwood together.

#

"No hex bags in Mozzie's room," Dean said, flopping onto the bed in the motel room. "But did you see all the wine bottles?" No wonder the guy's acting weird. What does honey wine taste like, anyway?"

Sam was taking forever in the bathroom. Dean reached for his brother's laptop and searched for Chloe. She had a website under her pen name of Cecilia Hepburn. The chick had a vivid imagination. The sex scenes she wrote for her heroine Zoe and her heartthrob Ravensword were some of the most creative he'd ever read.

"Researching Jezebel wannabes?" Sam asked, walking into the room as he dried his hair with a towel.

Dean quickly closed the browser. "What took you so long? We're going to the local roadhouse, not the prom. By the way, did you see the clowns on Main Street?"

Sam's only answer was a scowl.

"You did see those clowns! Is that why you took so long? You're not still afraid of them, are you?"

"Don't be ridiculous. Of course not."

"Uh-huh. Don't you worry, little brother. I'll protect you from the big bad Chuckles in the world."

Sam sighed. "Haven't you already interviewed everyone at the roadhouse?"

"It'll be a different crowd at night. Besides, they have a good bar and a pool table. A poker game was going on while we were there. With all the saps around, there's easy money to be made."

Sam's worry wrinkles exploded. "Taking advantage of men afflicted by a curse isn't ethical."

"Yes, it is. They owe us. Here we are working our butts off to rescue them, and what thanks will we get?"

"When do we ever get thanks?"

"If you're so worried about the victims, I could target Neal instead," Dean offered. "He looks like an easy mark. What kind of consulting does he do anyway?"

"He and Peter are members of the White Collar task force. Neal mentioned art crimes, mortgage frauds, and copyright infringements."

"A couple of wusses, in other words. Although, I have to admit Burke was pretty sharp. I don't think much escapes him. Be careful around him. Neal, on the other hand—it'll be taking like candy from a baby."

"Take it easy on him," Sam urged. "He seems like a nice guy. Besides, he may not be that easy. He nailed our fake IDs."

"He's an art student who can spot a forgery," Dean said, dismissing his concerns. "I'll be doing him a service by demonstrating what it's like in the real world."

They'd arranged to meet Burke and Neal at the Bullfrog Roadhouse. Burke insisted they conduct any interviews together. The guy had zero trust in his fellow man. According to locals, the Bullfrog was the liveliest scene in town. Chloe looked like a girl who enjoyed a good time. How awesome would it be if she was there too?

"Why do you have that idiotic smile on your face?" Sam asked, retrieving his cell phone from the dresser.

"No, I don't."

"You're thinking of Chloe, aren't you?"

"Am not."

Sam groaned. "That's why you want to stay around."

"Hey, you were the one who wanted to come here. I'm just helping out the men of Buttonwood." Liar.

#

The Bullfrog Roadhouse was four blocks from the inn. Peter would have driven but Neal suggested they walk over. For some unfathomable reason, Neal took it upon himself to defend Dean and Sam. "I'm just saying, you should give them a chance. They were serious when they talked about what they've faced."

Peter stifled his snort with difficulty. If Neal wanted to believe in witches and demons, so be it, but he'd stopped being gullible when he was nine. You'd think a former con man would be more circumspect. "Just be careful around them," Peter warned. "According to the Bureau database, they've been suspected of burglaries, armed robbery, kidnapping, grave desecrations . . . Need I go on?"

Lifting their fingerprints had been trivial. Peter ran them through the Bureau after Dean and Sam left for their motel. Rather surprisingly, their first names were legit, and now he had a surname. What he'd read about the Winchester brothers wasn't encouraging. If Neal hadn't pleaded to hold off because of Mozzie, he would have probably brought them in for questioning. But the hard evidence against them was scant to non-existent so he was giving them a pass.

"I've been meaning to ask you," Peter said. "Don't you think Dean looks a lot like your cousin Henry?"

Neal paused, his hand on the roadhouse door. "I noticed it too. And his attitude reminds me a little of Henry's grandfather Graham." He grinned. "Should we tell Henry he better check his family tree? He could have some relatives he doesn't know about."

Dean and Sam had already grabbed a table. When Peter saw them drinking beer, his opinion of them rose slightly. Tomorrow was soon enough to decide what to do with them. He and Neal placed their orders, Peter joining them in beer while Neal ordered a glass of wine. Peter noted with amusement Dean's look of disdain at Neal's glass.

"Dinner's on me," Neal said. "Mozzie's my friend and I appreciate your help."

Dean nodded his thanks and turned his head toward the bar. "Oh, waitress?" he called out, waving his beer bottle at her.

A short while later, with their table covered in cheeseburgers, French fries, and onion rings, Dean and Sam were downright cheerful. Neal was eyeing his Portobello mushroom sandwich dubiously. What did he expect at a roadhouse?

Dean was particularly friendly, even pretending to be interested in Neal's art. What scam was he trying to pull? Neal played along, milking the art student vibe. Peter relaxed to enjoy the show. Sam appeared to be mildly embarrassed at his brother's actions and spent his time researching will-o'-wisps on his laptop. At least he remembered why they were there.

"Ever shoot any pool, Neal?" Dean asked.

"With a full-time job and all my coursework, there's not much time left," Neal said, eyeing the pool table longingly. "Would you like to have a game? I have to apologize in advance. I'm sure I'm not up to your level."

"Nonsense. I'm not very good either." Dean ignored Sam's huff, and added hurriedly, "Let's make it fun with a friendly wager."

"Sure thing," Neal agreed with the innocent smile that Peter usually found annoying, but not this time.

After they left for the pool table, Sam said, "Don't worry. If Dean takes him for very much, I'll insist he return his money."

"Thanks, but I'm not concerned. Would you like to place a small bet on who comes out ahead? Loser buys the next round of drinks?"

"You're on," Sam agreed.

Peter and Sam took their drinks and headed for the pool table to watch the game. The Bullfrog had a digital jukebox along with a karaoke machine and someone had loaded "Green Onions" on it. Several other customers gathered around to watch. Neal wore his trademark easy smile as he racked the balls. How long would he string Dean along?

When the chalk dust settled and the sound of cue sticks striking balls no longer resounded through the roadhouse, Neal and Peter returned to their table to enjoy the drinks provided by Sam.

"That's the last time I challenge an art student to shoot pool," Dean said ruefully.

Neal returned Dean his money. "I was hustling pool before you were stealing hubcaps."

Dean pocketed the cash. "Thanks. If drinking wine gives you that kind of edge, I may have to take it up."

Peter glanced around the roadhouse. Attendance seemed light for a Friday night. There were a few guys at the bar acting goofy but then, aren't there always? Peter didn't see much to be alarmed at. A couple of kids looked like they should have been carded, but he wasn't inclined to spoil their evening out as long as they behaved themselves.

Neal had been looking bored for several minutes. Peter wasn't surprised when he asked, "You guys play poker?"

Dean hesitated for a moment. "Do you play poker like you shoot pool?"

Peter gave them a break. "Probably better."

"That's all right. I like a challenge. There's a free card table in the corner. You're on."