AN: Anybody know who Jean Valentine was without looking her up? Yeah, no, me neither. She was a code-breaker in WWII. I thought Margaretha might use her as an alias rather than the supposed spy for the Nazis Mata Hari.

Still own nothing, just playing pretend.

Previous chapter: Rest assured, we'll find and kill whatever's doing this.

"I'm not 100% sure it is a witch," Sam was saying as he finished buttoning his top shirt. But Dean's attention had been arrested by the bloody tissue in the trash. His focus narrowed to those drops of blood and suddenly Sam was back in the middle of the Trials and fading before Dean's eyes and lying in the hospital so still Dean had to stare just to see if his chest was moving and –

"Hey." Sam's hand was on his shoulder, his voice low, and his eyes far to knowing. When Dean focused on him, Sam tilted his head to the right. "I cut myself shaving." With the hand that wasn't on Dean's shoulder, Sam pointed to the spot on the corner of his jawbone where he always cut himself.

It took Dean another half second to refocus, to remember that Sam was fine now, or at least on his way to fine with Dr. Angel working inside him. Sam broke eye contact and dropped the hand before Dean could shake him off, giving him an easy out. Dean considered just when his little brother had become a man who knew him so well, who could read him and comfort him without embarrassing him.

"Can't trust you around any sharp objects," complained Dean as they both acted like nothing had happened. He stepped around Sam and his too-kind, too-knowing eyes. "Why wouldn't it be a witch? The whole bleeding out with no medical cause has evil Sabrina written all over it."

Sam followed him toward the kitchen. "The whole connection to the ship makes no sense. Witches tend to hole up in a safe place to keep all their ingredients and spell books and other accoutrements, and work from there. A ghost is more likely to –"

"Accoutrements? Who the hell talks like that?"

"A ghost is more likely to stick with something like a ship than – "

"Aren't we going to talk about this super nerd thing you're working lately?"

"Hey, smart is the new sexy," contributed Kevin. The kid was eating cereal at the kitchen table with a case of bedhead that rivaled Don King.

Dean messed the kid's hair even more, making Kevin bat at him and giving Sam a flashback to many mornings where Dean had done the same thing to him. In fact, he hadn't stopped until Sam accidentally dumped a cup of coffee on his feet trying to bat Dean's hands away. About two years ago.

"What do you know about sexy?" Dean teased.

"I read it," admitted Kevin around a mouthful of cereal. "In a magazine."

Dean smirked. "Teen Beat?"

"Seriously, they know what they're talking about." Kevin was undeterred. "Over half of women under 30 said that they find intelligence attractive, and 70% said they were more likely to approach a man who was wearing glasses than not.

Dean shook his head a little sadly. "Sexy is sexy, Kevin. How many of those green pills did you take? They only write that crap to make little nerds feel better about themselves."

It was a crap shoot over who rolled their eyes harder, Sam or Kevin.

Sam's phone rang, and he held a finger up to his lips toward Kevin, who nodded. "Margaretha? You're on speaker."

"Misters Winchester. Have you made a plan for taking care of the situation on the SS Badger?"

"Almost," said Dean. "We're not sure that the witch is actually on the ship. Since everyone died after getting off in Wisconsin, she could be somewhere on the shore."

"Actually, we're not entirely sure he or she is a witch," Sam cut in, and this time it was Dean rolling his eyes. "It could be a spirit, or even some kind of curse. But the plan is to take the evening crossing, since it has far fewer people on it. One of us will talk to as many staff and passengers as possible while the other takes a look behind the scenes to see if we can find anything. Unfortunately, we couldn't narrow anything down based on who was and wasn't working. It's a small crew, and was exactly the same for all three times when hunters were killed."

"Well, that's certainly a straightforward plan," she agreed.

"The other option was to go under our real names to hopefully be recognized, then see who tries to kill us," offered Dean with a grin. That had been his suggestion.

There was amusement in Margaretha's answer. "Would that be a page from the Rufus Turner hunting handbook?"

"Could be," admitted Dean.

"Have you considered that your fancy car might be just as much of a giveaway as your names?"

"Doesn't matter. I'm not driving to Michigan in anything but my baby. If we're made, so be it. Chances are, our killer will be trapped out on the water with us, no way out." His grin was slightly feral.

"Don't cock your gun at me, Dean Winchester. I'm old enough to be your mother."

Sam failed to keep in a bark of surprised laughter and Kevin choked on his cereal. Dean was nonplussed. "Hey, Margaretha, speaking of…guns…do you think smart is the new sexy?"

The woman never hesitated. "Mikró agóri, smart has always been and always will be sexy. However, if the rumors are correct, neither you nor your brother need to worry on either score. Now, if you're done flirting, I have other things to do."

"Thanks for calling us, Margaretha," said Sam.

"Yes, thanksh, Mish Moneypenny," added Dean in his best Sean Connery accent.

"Given the circumstances, I would say it's more likely that I'm Charlie and you're my angels. Good morning, angels." And she hung up.

Kevin laughed so hard he ended up crying, but Dean wasn't disappointed by the comparison. "At least we're hot and badass."

AN: Mikró agóri translates to something like "little boy" in Greek.