For notes and disclaimer, please see part one.

Then...

Dean and Darcy revisit Collette at the law firm, where she speaks of Alain lovingly and Darcy figures out they had more than a boss-employee relationship. Dean checks out the Martins' old neighborhood to discover Karen Martin was the saint to Alain's sinner, and Patricia was a quiet child. Darcy, from work, lets Dean know that the coroner's been rolled, and Karen certainly isn't the killer, as she's the next victim. Patricia gets a visit from the police and passes out, and not from the stress of knowing that her parents are now both dead.

Now...

Dean had been to a number of crime scenes in his day. He was used to police lines being a certain distance from the dead body. This one was certainly no different. The entire apartment complex was blocked off, except for some residents, residents who lived far enough away from Karen Martin's, who wouldn't interfere with the investigation by simply heading home.

Parking the Impala, he headed casually towards the group that had gathered. For all the complaining people did about the violence on TV, a crime scene never failed to bring a crowd. He stood quietly amongst the assembly for a moment before asking: "What happened?"

The man next to him glanced over. "Some lady on the second floor died," he said, nodding towards the open curtains in the corner of the building.

"Somebody kill her or what?"

He shook his head. "I heard the police say that she fell in the kitchen, hit the knife block over onto herself and hit her head on the counter."

"Ouch..."

"Pretty convenient, if you ask me," said the sideline detective.

Dean had to agree of course. "Oh, yeah." The voodoo chick had perfected masking her murders.

His thoughts immediately went to Patricia Martin. Why kill both parents? He couldn't imagine a client of Alain's turning on his ex-wife as well. It didn't make sense. The client shouldn't know his ex-wife.

Dean rocked up on his toes to watch as the body was wheeled out and into the coroner's van. Picking up his cell phone, he started back for the Impala.

"New Orleans City Morgue," answered Darcy.

"Body's on its way back to you now. Rumor has it, she managed to knife herself with a couple kitchen knives..."

"They'll start the autopsy when they get back."

"Okay. Now, you said you had information on where this voodoo pooh-bah lives, right?"

"Yeah, some."

"I'll swing by and pick it up."

She was silent for a moment. "You're going after her by yourself?"

"Darcy..."

"I've done this much so far. I want to go with you!"

"It's not a good idea."

"Give me ten minutes, Dean, please."

"I'll be there in ten, ready for the information you've got." As Dean hung up, he quickly replayed the conversation in his head. He didn't think he was being unreasonable. After all, he had a job to do--his job--and that was to kill that voodoo bitch.

She'd been a great asset to him the past two days, he thought as he cruised New Orleans traffic. It seemed like they'd been together so much longer. He realized, too, he should give his dad a break. He was probably hiking through some overgrown trail hunting something himself. He'd try again in another day or two. By then, he could probably catch up with him, help out on whatever it was he was chasing.

He had a feeling, after all, that the voodoo bitch would be gone by morning. If he could figure out how to kill a voodoo bitch, that is.

Checking his watch, he realized he was a few minutes early as he pulled up outside the morgue. He leaned back in the seat, closing his eyes for a moment. Darcy was a sweet girl. Smart. John really would like her. Maybe he could bring his dad out here someday. Just thinking about her, he was almost certain he could smell her shampoo or perfume or whatever it was wafting into the Impala on the cooling night breeze.

He jumped when the passenger door opened. "Hey. Got that information for me?"

"We can make better time if I read while you drive."

"Darcy..." he said warningly, thinking about how hard this hunt could be, hoping to make her realize that this was not something she wanted to do.

Darcy ignored it, pulling out a map to give directions. "In the 1930s, there was an older lady named Opal Moon. She ran a voodoo shop just outside of town. People used to complain about the smells and noises. She was known far and wide as the voodoo priestess who could do anything. Bring someone back from the dead, make someone die, make someone love you, whatever." She looked up at him. "We're not going yet?"

Dean sighed, putting the Impala in gear and driving off. "What happened to her?"

"Well, in the Depression, people would give her all their money in the hopes for a miracle. In order to perform it, she demanded the faithfulness of all involved. They had to worship her voodoo religion with her for a month. Once she believed they were believers, she would do whatever it was they wanted. After a month, she tried to pull off their miracle, to make them all rich, ensure they all had jobs, whatever. It failed."

"So, they killed her."

"That's putting it politely. They dismembered her, buried her in seven different locations in the wetlands outside of town."

He sighed. "High Priestess of the Bayou."

"Yeah."

"Do we know all seven locations?"

"Even if we did, we're at or below sea level. Bits and pieces could've easily been swept out to the Gulf," she said, shaking her head.

He sighed. "Then, the normal stuff won't work to kill her: salting and burning the bones, not if I don't know where all the pieces are."

"So, what do we do?"

He sighed. His dad would know what to do. John Winchester could kill anything. "We go to this bayou. If she's resurrected, she's gotta be there."

Patricia woke slowly at the hospital. She blinked, trying to focus. She felt something up her nose. Oxygen, she realized. Her right hand hurt from an IV.

She sat up quickly, realizing the mistake once it was too late. Her head started swimming again. Cradling her head in her hands, she waited for the spinning to stop before slowly looking up. "Somebody? Anybody?"

She heard the chanting again, the same sounds she heard before she passed out.

"That wasn't supposed to happen! You're not supposed to take me!"

The chanting faded away, this time to a cackling laughter and a haunting voice. "You belong t' me, chil'."

Dean figured the best way to protect Darcy was give her what information he thought would be relevant. "Holy ground is always good against restless spirits. Keep your eyes open for churches," he told her. "If we have to, we can run to them for safety."

"Okay."

"Do you know how to handle a gun?"

"No," she said slowly.

"If you're really sure you want to do this, then I'll show you before we start hiking."

"Hey, Dean..."

"Yeah?"

"Why would Patricia kill both her parents?"

He was silent a moment. "I've been thinking about that. Karen Martin was an overly-involved mom. Taking her to ballet classes, violin lessons, academic team meets. Maybe she thought her mom was too involved with her to realize she was losing her father. Maybe she thought she should've done more to try to keep their little family together."

She nodded, glancing back at the map again in the dim light. "Take a right up here..."

"Darcy..."

"Yeah?"

"While we're out there, if I think 'run,' I want you to run as far and as fast as you can to get away."

She sighed.

"Darcy, promise me," he told her in all seriousness.

She knew it was just for his peace of mind. "I promise," she lied convincingly.

He nodded, satisfied.

The rest of the ride was in silence, except for Darcy's directions. Dean pulled off the side of the old highway, parking the Impala. Exiting the car, his first stop was the trunk. Popping it, he also opened the hidden compartment, propping it open with a shotgun.

"Whoa..." Darcy's eyes grew large as she saw his cache.

Wordlessly, he handed her a flashlight. He loaded his jacket pockets with a few choice items, a flask of holy water, rock salt, and spare ammunition. He handed her a handgun, and gave her a quick tutorial on how to use it. "Just don't shoot me," was his only warning. He then grabbed the shotgun and his own flashlight, before closing the compartment and the trunk. "Let's get started," he said, looking at the foreboding wooded bayou.

Dean led the way, his flashlight occasionally sweeping the area in front of him. Darcy was careful to hold the gun down, at her side, while her flashlight bounced along the trail Dean cut.

"It really is spooky in here," she admitted.

"No worse than some other places I've seen," he told her.

She fell silent, keeping up with him. She tried not to listen to his thoughts as he remembered some of those particularly scary locations. It was hard not to. After all, he was the only one even remotely close to her. His thoughts rang clearly in her mind.

As if he could read her thoughts, he asked: "Are you picking up anybody else?"

"Not yet," she admitted. "If the high priestess is dead, I might not be able to read her thoughts. I mean, none of the bodies at the morgue speak to me, so..."

Dean had forgotten about that. "It's not too late for you to go back and sit in the car."

"Forget it. I'm not sitting anywhere alone even remotely close to this place."

"You're scared?"

She didn't answer.

"Darcy," he said with a sigh.

"Let's just keep moving."

As they progressed further and further into the creepy bayou, the wind picked up, howling maniacally through the trees. Darcy swallowed hard, trying to keep her fear at bay. The wind sounded like people... people in pain.

"I think we're getting close," Dean told her.

"Oh, good," she said, trying to sound optimistic. She wasn't sure if finding the voodoo high priestess would really end their problems, or just begin them. What Darcy definitely didn't like was what sounded like the rumble of distant thunder.

'TV this morning said it wasn't supposed to rain today.'

Darcy frowned. "When did you get the chance to watch the weather report?"

Dean stopped walking. "What?"

"You were thinking about the weather..."

He shook his head slowly. "No, I wasn't."

Darcy's eyes grew large. "Someone else is here," she said in a whisper.

"And they're thinking about..." Dean drifted off as he felt a raindrop hit his hand. "Rain."

She nodded.

"That someone's not a dead someone, is it?"

Darcy shook her head.

"Okay, so... it's a male voice?" Since she had thought it was his, he took a guess.

"Definitely."

"Can't be our high priestess, then. Or Patricia." He started walking on. "Keep listening."

Trudging along through the darkness, through the quickening rain, Darcy found herself moving in front of Dean, leading the way, following the thoughts of the other person. With something she could focus on that wasn't the scary wind or the darkness, she began finding a strength, a courage that was able to keep her pressing on. She also had to focus, trying to block out Dean's thoughts.

Sloshing through the mud, pushing past the brambling bushes and thick brush, Darcy stopped dead, spotting a thrown-together shack. "Dean," she whispered.

"I see it," he told her, moving in front of her. "You know who it is we're dealing with yet?"

She shook her head, and closed her eyes, focusing as best she could on the other thoughts: 'How dare she? What was she thinking? I helped her, and this is how she decided to repay me? By killing me? This'll show her. I'll show her what it's like, give her a taste of her own medicine. She'll rue the day she ever thought about making me her next victim.'

Blinking, she looked at the shack. That voice was familiar... She knew him.

"Darcy?" There was urgency in Dean's voice; he needed to know who, exactly, they were dealing with.

"Yates."

"What?"

"It's Dr. Yates. Patricia was going to have him killed next."

Dean realized why: "Because he was no better than her father, having a wife and going after younger women."

"Yates found out somehow, that Patricia was behind it all."

"How?"

She shrugged. "Wait... Maybe because he knew how to start her up!"

Dean glanced at the shack, which had smoke wafting from the ramshackle chimney. "Shh..."

She lowered her voice, but still spoke quickly, excitedly. "He's always been a believer, Yates has. If Yates knew about her legend, if he knew how to summon her from the dead, then he could've told Patricia, so she could get even with her parents."

"Then, why the book?"

"So no one would know of his discovery. He'd have the power all himself."

Dean nodded slowly. "I really hadn't anticipated having someone else here..."

"I can get Yates out of the way."

"What are you talking about?"

"I can get Yates out of the way. I can get him to follow me. That would leave the priestess for you."

"I don't like this plan," he said, shaking his head.

Darcy, however, was already bounding over towards the shack, sliding the gun into the back of her jeans' waistband. "Dr. Yates?" she called.

"Darcy," he hissed impatiently. Swallowing a curse as she ignored him, he ducked behind the trunk of a huge, decaying tree, turning off his flashlight.

Yates leaned against the wall, rubbing a yellowish paste onto a gash in his wrist, where he had been forced to add some of his own blood to High Priestess Opal Moon's goblet, watching as she stirred the simmering, smelly concoction. She had assured him it would stop the bleeding.

"Dr. Yates?"

The high priestess stopped immediately. "Followed..."

"No, no, no. I checked and double-checked," Yates said, abandoning his spot, crossing towards the door, to peek out through a thin place in the fabric covering the opening. "It's a former student..."

"Dr. Yates, are you there? I... I need your help."

"Get rid of her," Opal demanded.

"How, exactly?" he asked, looking back at the haggard old woman.

She didn't bother looking up at him, rather focusing on the brew before her. "The blue bottle, on the shelf. Make her drink."

Yates sighed, grabbing it, and sliding it into his sports coat pocket before stepping out. "Darcy? Darcy, is that you?"

"I'm so glad I found you, Dr. Yates. I thought that was you..."

"How did you know?"

Dean cringed. This was not going well...

"I... My friend from home, the one you met?"

"Sure."

"He brought me here. He..." She drifted off, shaking her head. "I can't even say it. I can't even believe it. I-I ran to get away. I thought I saw you coming this way, but I just wasn't sure. I'm so glad to see you."

"Darcy, my dear, you're all right now, you're safe."

"Would you mind, Dr. Yates, taking me home?"

"Did he hurt you? Don't you want to call the police?"

She shook her head. "I just want to go home."

"Very well, dear," he said, easing an arm around Darcy's shoulders. "It's a long way back to my car..."

"I'm sure you'll protect me."

Dean peeked out from around the tree, watching as they started heading off in another direction, as the rain picked up, falling harder, faster, and, worst of all, colder.

"I'm amazed you knew it was me. This bayou can be very dark, very hard to see anyone else."

"I'm just so glad it was you," she lied, wondering just how far away she would need to take him for Dean to do his thing.

"You must be parched," he told her. "Would you care for something to drink?"

"Oh, no, Dr. Yates. Like I said, I just want to go home..."

"You're trembling, my dear."

"This rain..."

"It's just a little whiskey I have in my pocket here. Have some, and you'll be warmer."

She looked up at him, knowing full well that he had some other sort of potion in his pocket, something that would not be good for her in the slightest. "Oh, Dr. Yates, I don't drink."

"Not even for medicinal purposes?" he asked her.

"No, sir."

Dean could no longer hear Darcy or the professor, and figured it was time for him to make his move. Cautiously, he crossed to the shack. Making sure the shotgun was ready to go, he pushed past the thinning fabric and aimed for the high priestess's mangy-looking head with eyeless sockets.

As Dean pulled the trigger, she vanished. He frowned slightly, pressing further into the cabin. He wasn't entirely sure he had hit her. His eyes expertly darted through the room.

"You come t'kill me, too, chil'?" she asked, in her thick Cajun drawl.

Dean spun around, not seeing her. "Where are you?" He could swear he felt her breath on his ear when she whispered her answer.

"Behind you."

He spun on his heel, and he felt himself being punched in the stomach, flying back across the room, and crashing into a shelf of mason jars, the shotgun leaving his hands.

"You are not da first," she told him. "You will not be da last, eit'er."

"It wasn't your fault, that the spell went bad, back in the 30s. It was their fault. They weren't believers, were they?"

"How you know?" she asked, reappearing in front of him, her head tipped curiously to one side.

"You tried to tell them that it would only work if they believed, right, because they wanted such an advanced skill. Patricia Martin believes you. So does Oliver Yates, right?"

"S'right, chil'."

"Why kill one of your dearest believers? Why kill Patricia Martin?"

"Why kill Oliver? He bringed her t'me."

"So, don't kill either of them."

She tipped her head the other direction, pondering. A sickening grin came to her face. "I kill you, den."

That was not quite what Dean wanted or needed to hear, nor was the scream from outside the cabin. "Darcy..."

The Road Ahead...

"Hey!" Dean yelled. "She hasn't done anything to you!"

"Dis chil' has power..." she said, tilting her head to one side curiously, looking at Darcy, held against the wall, as though she had captured an insect under glass. "Dis chil' has power I can take," she said hungrily.