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Chapter Six:

Death by Sex Shop

"What the hell is a bequest?" Dean asked, staring at the storefront across from which he and Sam stood.

The shop was decked in pinks and reds. Roses and heart-shaped cutouts filled the display window sitting beneath streamers printed with words like 'love', 'cherish', and 'forever.' It looked like Valentine's Day had thrown up over the place a week early. And above the door hung a great big sign that read, 'Lover's Bequest'.

"It's something that someone leaves you in their will, like an inheritance or a legacy," said Sam, frowning as he glanced from the sign down to the address in his hand.

Dean couldn't blame him for the confusion. Going by the guy's apartment, James Aaron didn't seem like the type who'd come to a place like this.

Sam eyed the shop, shrugged, and stepped up to the front door. A bell tinkled as he pushed it open, and Dean moved to follow but found his muscles tensing as he rolled back onto the heels of his feet. His gaze darted from the Impala to the passersby, and a sick feeling churned in his stomach.

"You coming?" Sam asked from where he stood inside the shop, still holding the door open. He followed Dean's gaze and sighed loud enough for Dean to hear over the distance. "The car will be fine, Dean. We're miles away from crazy town, and you can keep an eye on her through the window."

Dean nodded but eyed the quiet street once more. Everything seemed normal here—cars rolled past below the speed limit; people dressed warmly and appropriately; no graffiti marked the walls, and no broken furniture littered the sidewalk. Not a sign of vandalism in sight. With one last look at Baby, Dean followed Sam into the little shop.

Incense hung heavy in the air, and music played lowly through hidden speakers. Rows upon rows of shelves filled up the small space, creating narrow alleys that Dean wasn't sure he'd be able to fit between without having to shimmy through sideways. The polished wood gleamed red in the soft light, every inch of it covered with vials, bottles, books, and objects that Dean couldn't begin to imagine the purposes of, but what caught his eye was the corner at the far end of the shop where were displayed a collection of items he did know the purposes of.

He turned to Sam, a grin pulling at his features. "It's a sex shop."

"It's a love shop, actually," said a young woman as she emerged from behind a stack of shelves. She was short enough that Dean hadn't noticed her until now, but she would have been hard to miss otherwise. Electric pink hair hung in waves down to her waist, topped with dark roots that matched her lipstick and eyeshadow. Piercings decorated her lips, nose, and ears, and tattoos wound up her arms, disappearing beneath the sleeves of her shirt. "Can I help you gentlemen with anything?"

"Yes, ma'am," said Sam, pulling his fed badge from his pocket and flicking it open. Dean followed suit. "Do you keep records of your customers and their purchases?"

She frowned from one badge to the next, then cocked an eyebrow as she looked up at the two men. "All right, one, I'm pretty sure you guys need a warrant, and, two, how can knowing what someone bought here possibly help you with whatever you're investigating?"

Unhelpful and distracting images of a dildo being used to commit an FBI-worthy crime crowded Dean's brain, but Sam stayed on track. He didn't let the mention of a warrant throw him, just gave the shopkeeper an apologetic smile and said, "I'm afraid that's confidential."

"So are my files," she said, tone firm and eyes unblinking. "I'm sorry, but this is people's most private and intimate lives you intend to intrude on, gentlemen."

Dean shook off the death-by-dildo film that was looping through his mind and took a small step forward. He hunched down slightly and slipped on an understanding yet conspiratorial smile. "We get that—"

"Do you?" she asked, not swayed in the least by step one of his charm offensive. "Tell me, Agent, what's the last thing you bought from a place like this?"

Steps two and three flew from Dean's brain as his mind stuttered. He found himself choking on air for a brief second, warmth creeping up the back of his neck.

The shopkeeper watched him without batting an eye. "Not so easy when it's your personal life on display, is it?"

"I'm not—I've never—" Dean tried and failed to form a coherent sentence, glancing at Sam for backup, but his brother only offered a smirk and raised brows.

The woman shook her head and shrugged an apology. "If you can convince a judge to sign off on a warrant, I'll cooperate. Until then, though, I'm afraid there's nothing I can do."

She gave them each a nod and turned on her heel, but Sam interrupted her before she could make it more than a few steps. "Does the name Rowena MacLeod mean anything to you?"

She froze. Tension crept into her shoulders, and when she turned back to face them, she did so very slowly. "Who are you?"

"My name's Sam. This is my brother, Dean. We're hunters."

"The Winchesters?" She folded her arms over her chest, which made her look smaller than she already was, but she also lifted her chin and kept her gaze steady. "I'm honoured. Not sure why you're here, though."

The confirmation that she was a witch was all Dean's brain needed to get back on the job. "Take a wild guess."

"I haven't done anything wrong."

"Really?" he asked. "Mind explaining why every Tom, Dick, and Harry a few towns over has suddenly decided to go on a week-long bender?"

She glanced from Dean to Sam then back. "How should I know?"

Sam stepped in. "We found this—" he pulled the receipt and leaflet from his pocket "—in the first victim's apartment. We know he came here, and we know you're a witch."

She scoffed, and just like that any trace of fear melted away from her. Her shoulders relaxed, and her arms fell to her sides. "And you immediately jumped to the wrong conclusion? I'd heard that you two were better at your job than that."

"Look—"

"Don't bother threatening me," she cut in. "I value my life enough not to argue with you, so I'll help in any way I can. But if you shoot me in the back, I'll be royally ticked off."

She strode to the back of the shop, stomping hard enough that she could have been mistaken for a person twice her size. Sam and Dean followed more delicately, squeezing between the shelving and holding their breath so that they didn't get stuck.

"I'm Sophie, by the way. Sophie Greenaway," she muttered from behind the shop counter. A laptop sat open next to an old cash register, and her fingers flew over the keyboard faster than Dean could keep track. "What was the victim's name?"

"James Aaron," said Sam, and he held up the receipt. "According to this, he paid with a credit card, but it doesn't say what he bought beyond the serial code."

"It's a privacy measure," said Sophie, gaze fixed on the screen, but she took a second to glance pointedly at the paper in Sam's hand, "in case someone goes riffling through my clients' stuff." Her eyes flicked back down to the computer. "James Aaron came by last Friday. First-time customer. Bought one item: the Love Me, Love Me Not Formula."

Dean's gaze kept sliding to the sex toys in the corner, but he forced it back to Sophie. "What's that?"

"It's a potion designed to lower inhibitions and make you brave enough to act on your desires."

Dean frowned, repeating the sale's pitch over in his head while losing the promotional crap and coming to one conclusion: "So it's a supernatural roofie?"

"It's a social lubricant," she said, enunciating the words sharply as she glared at him. "It doesn't create any urges that aren't already there, and it doesn't force people to act on them; it just gives them a little push if they're so inclined."

"A little push?" said Dean, lips twisting in a sneer. "We've got people cheating on spouses, driving like they're on Formula One, getting into fistfights in hospitals… What about that says 'little push' to you?"

She cocked her hip and balled her fists on the countertop. "I sold a single vial to Mr Aaron. That was enough to give him the bravery he needed to ask out the girl of his dreams and make her act on her feelings for him if she had any. Nothing more."

"What if the dosage wasn't respected?" asked Sam.

She looked over at him and shook her head. "Not possible. I measure everything out myself. Mr Aaron requested a higher dose, but I didn't give it to him. I'm not an idiot."

Sam's gaze rose to the beaded door curtain behind Sophie. "Is any of your stock missing?"

Her eyes narrowed, but she shrugged and answered, "I don't know. I only do inventory at the end of the month."

Dean thought back to James Aaron's mile-long rap sheet with all those counts of B&E and theft, and the pieces started falling into place. "Check."

Sophie scowled at him but did as she was told, the brightly-coloured beads tinkling as she pushed through them. She was gone for less than five minutes, every second of which Dean spent trying not to let Sam catch him staring at the X-rated goods in the corner. The tinkling announced Sophie's return, and the look on her face—eyes downcast and lips pressed in a firm line—told the boys everything they needed to know.

The bell over the door jingled, and a woman stepped into the shop.

"Sorry, ma'am," said Dean as he pulled out his FBI badge again, "shop's closed."

The woman nodded with wide eyes and scampered out. Dean pocketed his badge and turned back to the counter to see Sophie staring at him with her mouth hanging open.

"What?"

Her mouth snapped shut with a loud click as she said through her teeth, "You realise that I'm trying to run a business here, right?"

Dean smiled in a way that didn't reach his eyes and forced out a chuckle. "No. Right now, you're cleaning up a mess you had a hand in causing."

Her glare filled with venom, and Dean thought that she might hex him or throw something at him, but then she huffed a sigh and slipped around the counter, walking over to the front door to switch the open/closed sign over.

While her back was turned, Dean let his eyes roll and caught sight of Sam giving him a disapproving frown. "What?" he mouthed, but Sam shook his head and threw Sophie a small smile as she returned.

"My apartment's upstairs," she said as she walked past them to the other side of the counter, where she held open the bead curtain.

Dean had a moment to worry about the car, left alone and unsupervised on the street, before Sam herded him through the door.

The back of the shop was even more cramped than the front, with one wide workbench taking up most of the space and a big cabinet filling the rest of it. The cabinet partially blocked a door to the outside that sported five different locks, all of which looked old and flimsy—the kind that could be picked easily and quickly by anyone not intimidated by the number of them. Next to where Dean stood, a short, dark corridor led to a narrow staircase.

Sophie headed in that direction.

Dean's shoulders brushed against the walls as they climbed up a floor, and claustrophobia began to set in while they waited for Sophie to pull out her keys at the top of the stairs.

Thoughts of the Ma'lak Box crept into his mind, of all those nightmares that had plagued what little sleep he'd got ever since Billie had told him how to build the damn thing. Trapped in the dark with no room to move. The weight of the ocean crushing down on top of him. Screaming himself hoarse. Pounding against the coffin walls. Buried alive for eternity.

By the time Sophie got everything unlocked, Dean would have welcomed even James Aaron's apartment, but hers was much nicer. Small? Yes, but also clean and packed with enough plants that she could convert the place into a flower shop without much effort.

"Tea?" she asked as she tossed her keys into a bowl on the table by the door. Without waiting for an answer, she walked over to the small kitchen area, filled up the kettle, and grabbed some teabags from a tin conveniently labelled 'tea'.

Everything seemed to be labelled. Once you got over the 'Amazon rainforest' look of the place, it was easy to spot the meticulous organisation—the alphabetised bookshelves, the colour-coded folders on the desk, the plastic containers in the cupboards, the wall-mounted and colour-coordinated spice rack, all combining to make Dean feel self-conscious about the ketchup stain on his shirt. He pulled his overcoat tighter around himself as he and Sam moved to sit at the spindly kitchen table.

"Tell us everything James Aaron did and said when you saw him," said Sam.

"He came in on Friday, just before closing, and skulked around for fifteen minutes until he worked up the nerve to come up to the counter," said Sophie, standing next to the kettle as it boiled. "It was obviously his first time in this kind of shop. He was a nervous wreck—sweating, tripping over his words, glancing at the door every two seconds like he was afraid his grandmother was about to step in and catch him in the act. He asked for one of my specialities, something that would help him get with the woman he liked. I recommended the Love Me, Love Me Not Formula and told him what it did and how to use it. He asked for a higher dose. I said 'no'. He paid, and he left. That's it."

"Until he came back after you closed up shop to take what you wouldn't give him," Dean finished. "You need better security on this place."

She pursed her lips and said tightly, "Yes, thank you. I know that now."

The kettle clicked off, and she added hot water and a couple of teabags to a bright orange teapot. She brought it to the table along with three equally brightly-coloured teacups, each a different colour.

"What can the potion do in the quantities that were stolen?" asked Sam.

Sophie went to the fridge and filled a small pitcher with milk. Dean half-expected her to bring out egg salad sandwiches and a Victoria sponge cake—and was a little disappointed when she didn't. "With a dosage that high it wouldn't just lower inhibitions, it would stifle them completely. Not to mention extend the effects."

"Extend?" Sam repeated as she sat down. "So it's not permanent?"

Sophie shook her head. Pink strands of hair fell into her face, and she impatiently pushed them aside. "Of course not. It's only supposed to last a few hours, but with the amount that Mr Aaron took, it could last weeks."

"If it wears off how come it's been getting worse?" asked Dean. "Shouldn't the amount of crazy let up? Or at least stay the same?"

"There's a crescendo." Dean frowned, and Sophie rolled her eyes. "A climax. It builds and builds, reaches a high, then fades. The duration and intensity depend on the dosage and the person."

Dean's frown didn't lessen, and she began pouring the tea. "The person?"

She lifted the milk and sugar and looked at the two men, but they both shook their heads. With a shrug, she added some of both to her cup. "The effects can vary based on how prone the drinker is to suggestion."

"So the more gullible you are, the more affected you'll be?" said Dean.

"I wouldn't say 'gullible' is the right word for it. There are a lot of factors that can affect how willing a person is to give in to the potion."

Dean was about to ask what those factors might be when his nose started to tickle, and a sneeze cut him off. Another followed directly after just as a little black cat trotted into the room. It stared from Sam to Dean with big yellow eyes before heading toward the latter and rubbing against Dean's shin. Dean tensed and tried to nudge it away, but it wouldn't take the hint.

"You can tell a lot about a guy based on how he treats cats," said Sophie, her brows set in a firm and accusatory line.

Any retort Dean could come up with was lost in another bout of sneezing.

Sophie made a clicking sound with her tongue, and the cat meowed and jumped onto her lap. It kept staring at Dean, eyes wide and unblinking, as Sophie stroked down its back. A deep purr vibrated through its thin body. Dean edged away from it as far as his chair would allow, which wasn't a lot, but it at least kept most of the sneezing at bay.

As Dean focused on taking shallow breaths through his mouth, Sophie asked, "So am I allowed to ask questions or is this more of an interrogation rather than a conversation?"

Sam waved a hand. "Go for it."

She leaned back in her chair, teacup in one hand as the other kept stroking the cat. "How many people are affected?"

"We don't know for sure," said Sam. "According to a local doctor: about ninety per cent of the town."

Her eyes widened, and her hand paused mid-ear-scratch. "That's…a lot." The cat yowled, and she resumed scratching. "How was it administered?"

"No idea. We know it started happening at a football game on Sunday, and the effects got steadily worse from there."

Again her hand stilled, and this time the cat flicked its tail and jumped down from her lap. "So you don't know if people are still taking it?"

Sam and Dean shared a look, and Sam asked, "What would happen if they were?"

"I've never tested it," she said. She wrapped a strand of pink hair around her finger and started tugging on it. "But with most potions, long enough exposure can cause lasting damage. In this case, think: permanent psychosis."

"So we can't wait it out," said Dean. He bowed his head and rubbed the bridge of his nose, all the while keeping a wary eye on that cat. "Is there a cure?"

Sophie frowned. "It's not technically a cure because that would suggest a disease or curse, which this is not, but yes, there is a way to reverse the effects. A spell."

Dean looked up at the ceiling and rolled his eyes at the distinction. "Do you know how to cast it?"

"Of course," she said, eyebrows drawing together as she folded her arms over her chest. "I'm not an amateur. I know better than to brew a potion without knowing the antidote first."

Dean smirked. "I thought it wasn't an antidote."

She narrowed her eyes on him, but Sam stepped in, interrupting their squabble. "Can you do it now? Do you have everything you need?"

"No," she said, tearing her eyes away from Dean with one final glare. "I've never needed a reversal before."

That sounded like a fairly amateurish move to Dean, but he let it slide. "What do you need?"

"Things that aren't easy to come by, and my supplier has a waitlist."

Sam grabbed a pen and notepad from his coat pocket and handed them over to her. "Ours doesn't. Make a list. We'll get you what you need."

Sophie scribbled down her list like a doctor writing out a prescription—with the handwriting to match. Dean tried to decipher it but couldn't get past the first word. Sam didn't seem to have any trouble with it, though, as he glanced over the page and nodded.

"Give us a minute," he said, and he pushed his chair back, tea untouched, and nodded for Dean to follow him out into the stairwell.

The door swung shut behind them, and the dull light and bland walls seemed all the duller and blander after Sophie's apartment.

"Do we trust her?" Dean asked. A hint of claustrophobia edged back into his mind, but he ignored it, overlapping the small space with mental images of beaches and the open road.

Sam shrugged and squinted down at the list of ingredients scrawled into his notepad. "I don't think she's lying. She doesn't seem like the type who'd mess with people for fun."

"And she probably wouldn't have invited us up for tea if she wanted to kill us." Dean nodded down at the list. "Do we have all that at the bunker?"

"I think so. I'll text Cas and ask him to round everything up." He grabbed his phone from his pocket but didn't turn it on. "This case is still bugging me."

Dean agreed with him there. "Right, because if James Aaron bought a potion to get laid, why is the rest of the town all out of whack?"

Sam ran a hand through his hair, eyes distant with thought and fixed on the wall behind Dean's head. "How do you get nearly everyone in a town to drink a potion? If it was in the water supply, everyone would be affected—no exceptions. But this…"

"Maybe we should ask the woman Aaron had his eye on." Dean sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "All right. You stick with the witch in case she tries to make a run for it, and I'll go look for our mystery woman."

He started down the steps, but Sam interrupted his descent. "Hey, Dean? Be careful."

Dean waved off the concern and threw a winning smile over his shoulder. "Always am."

"No, really," said Sam. He didn't return the smile or lose the serious set of his eyebrows. "We don't know how this potion was spread or if it's still being handed out, and the last thing we want is either one of us getting affected."

Dean gave it a moment of thought, brain rolling through worst-case scenarios, then he shrugged it off. "Won't be a problem."

"Dean—"

"What?" He turned to face his brother. "This thing targets your hang-ups, right? But we work through our worst impulses every day. We kill, lie, cheat. I mean, obviously, I get more tail than you do…"

Sam didn't bite. "It isn't just about sex and violence. You can't tell me there isn't something you want more than…this."

The look on Sam's face was one Dean recognised—one that never failed to tear at his insides worse than any hellhound ever could. It was the downcast eyes and drooping shoulders of a man who would rather be anywhere but here, doing anything but this. It was the harsh twist of the lips and the scornful set of the brows of someone who hated that this was his lot in life. It was the look of a guy who was about to walk out a door and not look back.

Dean took the steps that separated him from his brother slowly, ducking his head to try and catch Sam's eye. "Like what?"

But Sam shook his head and shifted to the side, already reaching for the door handle. "Never mind."

"Hold up." Dean grabbed Sam's shoulder and turned him back around. "What did you mean by that?"

"I mean that ever since we hit that town, I've been wanting to—" He cut himself off and looked at the door behind him, then over Dean's shoulder, letting his eyes slide everywhere but onto Dean. Finally, he settled for dropping his gaze to his feet. "To run away, I guess."

Dean released his grip on Sam's shoulder, his arm falling heavy at his side. "You think you're infected?"

"No," Sam said quietly, still refusing to look up. "The feeling's no worse than it was yesterday morning. What I'm saying is that if either of us does get infected, there won't be any coming back from that."

Dean sucked in a breath and let it out on a shaky exhale while rubbing his hands over his face. "Fine. I won't leave my drink unattended. You gonna be okay on your own?"

"Yeah." A smile touched his lips. "Just a guy in a suit loitering outside a sex shop—that won't look weird at all."

That wasn't what Dean had meant, and Sam knew it, but no amount of talking was going to fix this, so Dean let the matter drop. "You always look weird."

Sam snorted and shook his head. "I'll catch up with you later."

He pushed open the door to let Sophie know that her list was being taken care of. Dean saw Sophie at the sink, washing teacups, while her cat sat on the chair he had recently vacated, staring at him.

With a shake of his head and one last look at Sam, Dean turned and started down the stairs.

A/N n°2: So I have a question: what chapter length do you guys prefer? Because I can't decide. This story was originally meant to be only five chapters long, but then I kept adding bits and cutting chapters in half when I thought they were getting too long. So do you have a favoured word count or does it depend?