Dean tried to wrinkle his nose and glare at Sam simultaneously, and ended up looking like he was trying hard to take a very resistant shit. Sam told him as much, and as the vehicle lurched out of the parking lot with a series of belches and farts, Dean finally relented and pinched his nose with his thumb and forefinger.

"Why is it," he said in a clogged tone, "that we always end up with the filthy end of whatever stick we're handed?"

Sam turned the garbage truck with a broad motion, doing his best to stay in his lane. "Cause we're the maintenance crew," he said. "We don't take out the trash, it piles up."

"Yeah, well, it's your turn. I washed the dishes. Why'd you have to drag me along?"

"We have to talk to them at some point; they might know something we can use."

Dean rubbed the skin under his nose, pressing his index finger against it. "There was no other way into this place? We couldn't have pretended to be carpet cleaners or something?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Quit your bitching. You're out of the motel room, aren't you?"

"These people better have some damn good information." He screwed his face up, rolling down the window. "I'm gonna smell like a baked landfill for a fucking week."

The cold snap had lifted, and temperatures were well above freezing; the sun was out again and people had emerged from their houses and returned to town now that they could do so without ski masks and lederhosen. Sam pumped the brakes and shifted gears as they made another wide left onto the private highway that led to the northern edge of Platsworth.

The McLaughlins had proven elusive; even the tabloids had stopped hounding them, choosing instead to pester the FBI for information about the local killer. They were calling him The Bear Claw, Sam had heard, and according to the local news, he was a failed plastic surgeon who'd lost his marbles and gone on a killing spree.

If only.

The McLaughlins had had a rather large funeral repast the day before, and had called for a special pickup from the waste company. The news anchor had mentioned it, lauding in a somber tone the McLaughlin's deep commitment to supporting local business, even during such a time of tragedy.

Knowing it was the only opportunity they were likely to get before another body turned up, Sam had paid the trash workers on this shift a hundred bucks each to skidaddle for a few hours, claiming it was an FBI sting operation. He didn't know if they believed him or not, but they took the money.

"We get anything new on Ross or Eddie? Tabloids turn up any more secret babies? Estranged Nazi second cousins?"

Sam chuckled. "Nothing. Except for the whole curse thing, these two were as clean as sheets at the Ritz."

"So why should we bother with the Baldwin Brothers again?"

"The McLaughlins are at the center of this. There's no way we know everything yet." He slowed the truck as they approached the massive gate at the edge of the property. "Besides, what else can we do? Bobby's got the blood to summon Anu, but until we get the evergreen and figure out a way to make him eat it, we can't kill him."

Dean put his feet up on the large dashboard, scratching his ankle. "Speaking of which. What about your little Irish cream? She's a turbo-charged psychic who's possessed by the banshee of the god we're hunting. She got any juicy tidbits we can use?"

Thirty-six hours had passed since he'd seen her in the dream; she wasn't answering his calls, and they'd been too worried about getting caught to venture into town looking for her. He'd been afraid the banshee got to her and they'd find another body, but so far they had nothing.

"Dunno. Haven't heard from her."

"Don't you two have a mind-meld, or something?" Dean unlatched his seat belt. "Can't you, I dunno, put up a bat signal?"

"We're not in the Justice League, Dean."

"Still. I mean, have you tried?"

Sam let his hands drop from the steering wheel and turned to his brother. "Since when are you so gung-ho on the whole psychic thing?"

Dean shrugged. "I'm not, but our hands are kinda tied here. You said yourself we can't make a move on this god until we've got the juices and berries. Merida's our banshee hostess for the evening, and the best source we got."

Sam peered at him through narrowed eyes.

"What?"

He shook his head. "Nothing. I'm just surprised, that's all."

Dean grinned with one half of his mouth. "You ain't seen nothin' yet." He jumped down from the truck before Sam could inquire further.

"C'mon," he called up, slamming the truck door. Sam climbed out, not bothering to lock the driver door.

The north lawn of the property was littered with yellow funeral programs and the petals of some kind of artificial flower, giving the impression that someone had destroyed a rather large piñata and taken off with the candy. The folding chairs still stood in rows, facing a small stage upon which two blown-up photographs stood. Ross and Edmund McLaughlin wore pale green and white shirts, respectively, and gray ties, the background of both photos an identical deep tan. Edmund looked solemn and reticent, his expression dignified; Ross' toothy smile was good-natured and mischievous, and it combined with his thinning hairline and pointed ears to create an elfin aura. His photo rocked in its easel as a gust of wind kicked up a few of the programs before dropping them again.

There was nobody outside, and Sam and Dean trudged through the grass with large trash bags, shaking them open with loud rustles and snaps. Sam hoped the sound would carry to the house and bring someone outside, but they had no such luck; after fifteen minutes of loud waiting, it became clear that one of them would have to ring the bell.

"C'mon, man."

Sam gestured at the scene before them. "I'm gonna look around out here."

"Look around for what? You think the banshee dropped its wallet?"

"These people are ground zero for this whole thing. There's gotta be something that can help us, and that something could be hiding right out here in plain sight. They might not even know it's here."

Dean grinned facetiously, pulling at the seam in his crotch. They'd been forced to wear the uniforms of the men they'd paid; they couldn't exactly head back to the personnel department and pick up new ones. Sam had taken the larger of the two – the only one he could zip in the back – and Dean had been left with the other. Nothing bulged obscenely, but it was more than a little snug.

Sam did his best not to crack a smile.

"Sure, Sammy. That's the reason. It couldn't be because we look ridiculous in these uniforms. Or because we smell like rotting porta-potties."

"It's not that bad."

Dean snatched Sam's bag from him. "No. Not this time. You got us into this mess, you can go interrogate the Madoffs reeking of eau de dumpster. I'll look around out here."

Sam watched Dean set about picking up programs, wearing an open-mouthed and disbelieving smirk.

"I don't believe it."

"What?"

"You're ashamed."

"What?"

"You're ashamed to be seen as a garbage man in front of these high society people."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Give me a break."

"Mr. I-don't-give-a-shit-about-shit wants to impress the haves."

"I don't give a crap what these people think about me, all right? I just don't want to stink up the place."

"Yeah, okay."

Dean glared at him.

Sam held up his hands. "Whatever. I'll go. Just holler if you run into trouble out here."

"I'll be fine."

The front door was open.

Sam knocked on the polished wood, the motion causing the door to swing in further.

"Mrs. McLaughlin?"

No one answered.

He leaned in, glancing around. The entry way was completely devoid of furniture and décor. He stepped carefully inside, not wanting to scuff the hardwood floors, and ambled from the foyer into the living room. This room was bare, as well; a pile of plastic sheeting sat in a corner, but all other signs of residence had been removed.

This isn't troubling at all, he thought.

"I'm from the waste management company," he called, looking up a flight of stairs. "We're here to clean up after yesterday."

He received no reply, and was about to go and call Dean in when the patio door slid open and a middle-aged woman stepped inside, cursing the cold.

"Are you Mrs. McLaughlin?"

If she was startled by his presence, she didn't show it. "Yes," she said. "You must be from the trash comp'ny. I was hoping you'd be here."

"I didn't mean to intrude, but nobody answered when I called, and I wasn't sure what you wanted us to take…"

"Oh, it's no problem. I'm the one who should have been waiting. Just been…busy."

Sam smiled. "I'm sorry for your loss. Your husband was a good man."

She slipped off her scarf, hanging it on a wall hook. "Oh, I'm not Suzy; she and the kids moved out after Ross passed. Lisa – that's Edmund's wife – moved down to Iowa with her. Fresh start."

"Can't say I blame them."

She held out her hand. "Carrigan. Ross and Edmund's first cousin."

"I'm Sam."

He cringed inwardly. Please don't remember that.

"Good to meet you, Sam." She crossed her arms over her heavy sweater. "So…we just need the yard cleared of all the paper, and there're bags of trash upstairs and on the lanai out back. The festival's in two days, and the last thing we want are stray funeral programs blowing about."

She giggled nervously.

"Festival?"

"Lughnasadh. It's a harvest tradition around here. Wrong time of year, but we'll make do. It's Irish in origin, but nobody cares about that sort of thing now. Everyone from town shows up; even a few folks from Corrina make the trip."

Sam smiled, leaning against the doorframe. It was hard to turn on the charm wearing a garbage uniform, but he had a bad feeling about this festival; they needed all the info they could get.

"It's wonderful how invested you guys are in the town, even after everything that's happened."

"Yes, well, all the more reason. People need something familiar, to smile about after this dreadful murder business. What could be better than an ancient festival of food and prosperity?"

Almost anything.

"So it's pretty standard fare then, huh? Hay rides, popcorn, candy…"

"Oh no, we go full traditional." She reconsidered. "Well, not all the way, but close enough. It's at least more Irish than St. Patrick's Day, anyway. There's bonfires, dancing, the cutting of the corn, even little prayers and offerings to the gods. They used to 'sacrifice'"- she made air-quotes - "animals in the old days, but I think that'd be in poor taste in light of recent events. The local Christians wouldn't care too much for it either, I don't think."

Fuck.

"Sounds nice."

Her eyes roamed over him for a bit, and then she smiled warmly. "Yes, well, I do have to get on with some business. Gotta have a permit for the bonfire, so…"

"Oh." Sam chuckled. "Right. Of course. Sorry. We'll just get the trash. Happy…harvest festival."

She gave him one last once-over and disappeared up the stairs.

"You really shouldn't be so oblivious, Dean."

The gun was in his hand and pointed at her before she took another step toward him.

She lifted and eyebrow. "Sure do get it up fast, though, don't ya?"

"Oh, you have no idea, honey. But if you take another step, you're gonna find out."

He had filled three bags with discarded programs, but dozens still blew around them. The grounds were as deserted as they had been when he and Sam had arrived, but now the birds were silent as well, and insects that had been chittering had stopped. Dean narrowed his eyes.

"What are you, the Orphan?"

She chuckled, her hair swirling – rather beautifully, if he was honest – around her head. "The birdies and bees don't like banshees."

"That was terrible."

"It's was, but it's true. They can sense it on me, even if I'm not…currently occupied."

"And I'm sure Raid Industries could make fantastic use of your unique talents, but we got no use for you. So how about you stay out of my brother's head and out of our hair while we deal with all this."

"Didn't Sammy tell you about how all this works? This banshee rides me. Without my help, you got about as much chance of landing a ticket as Ralph Nader does."

Dean frowned. "What?"

"The point," she said, taking a tentative step toward him, "is that you're not going to get far without my help. Not alive, anyway."

"Listen, babe. Me and that kid? We're professionals. We've been through shit that you can't even being to-"

"Save it," she said dismissively, tugging at her gloves. "This thing-"

"-God-"

"-knows you're in town. I haven't felt the banshee's presence since my little rendezvous with ten ton Tim in there. This thing needs three more souls to complete the ritual, but he doesn't seem to be in much of hurry any more. We gotta find out why that is, Winchester."

"I think I know," Sam said from behind Dean.

Dean jumped and nearly dropped his gun. "Jesus, Sam! Shuffle your feet or something, man."

"Sorry." He looked over at Merida. "You been screening my calls?"

She grinned, still playing with her glove. "I got shit to do."

"I'll bet."

"You've been busy, too." She pointed at his nametag. "Emanuel. Bit hifalutin' for a trash man, don't you think?"

"That's Associate Waste Manager to you. And last time I checked, it was you who was begging me to clean up your mess."

She laughed. "Touché."

A sexual charge passed between them and Dean rolled his eyes.

"The Batman-Catwoman thing was tired in the eighties, kids. Let's get back to business."

Sam chuckled, tugging at his crotch where the uniform had snagged. Merida lifted an eyebrow and took a step toward him. Dean raised his weapon again.

She held up her hands. "Permission to approach the bench, your honor?"

"Relax, Dean," Sam said. "She's not gonna kills us."

Dean reluctantly holstered is gun as Merida moved closer. "So what'd you find out?"

"Lughnasadh."

"What?" Dean and Merida said, simultaneously.

"An Irish harvest festival, held to honor the gods and promote prosperity for the next year. Ancient traditions, animal sacrifices, ceremonial prayers to the divine, the whole kit and caboodle."

Merida frowned. "When?"

"Day after tomorrow. Here, at this house."

"You gotta be shitting me."

"Nope."

"So he's waiting for the big day, when everyone's worshipping him. What, is the banshee just gonna brain-bleed the final three and leave the rest as appetizers for Anu's housewarming party?"

"Looks like it," Sam said, "but here's where it gets interesting. The main McLaughlins left? They moved to Iowa. They won't be here for the ceremony."

"Are we sure they're not dead?"

"I don't think so. Carrigan would have mentioned something."

"Who?"

"It doesn't matter," Merida said.

They turned their attention to her. Dean sneered.

"How do you figure?"

"Any of Siobhan's progeny will do. Doesn't matter how closely they're related now. This thing's still got Ian MacGregor, Carrigan McLaughlin, and a score of others around here to snatch. And that's just in this county. There's no telling how many descendants she's got and where they've moved over the years."

"So what do we do?" Sam winced as a funeral program smacked him in the face, kicked up by the wind. "She we warn them?"

"What's the point? We'll never be able to protect all of them."

"The point is that they're innocent people!"

Sam sighed. "Dean-"

"Look, lady, I know you pal around with ghosts and monsters, but the living still matter to us-"

"You know," she said with a poorly concealed sneer, "I'm getting sick of your hell-bound brother here, Sam. This snarky attitude was cute for a while, but he's starting to piss me off-"

"Oh, bring it on, sweet thing. I don't like you tooling around in my brother's head, and I don't like the fact that we have to deal with a monster's meat suit to get this job done. If it was up to me, I'd kill you now and be done with it-"

"Hey!" Sam reached for Dean's gun before he could pull it. "Let's just hear her out, okay?"

"Wh-"

"Please, Dean," Sam said tiredly. "We need her. More than you know."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Ugh!" The wind kicked up again, nearly knocking Sam and Dean over in the process. "Shut up! We have to trap and kill him before the night of the festival; rituals are more powerful during such times, and it'll be easier for him to cross over if he waits! He's got no reason to rush now; there are plenty of descendants and we can't protect them all. We'll use your summoning spell to get him here and put him down."

"And how the hell do you know about that? You been spying on us?"

"I know Bobby Singer went to Corrina to get the victims' blood, dipshit. It wasn't hard to put two and two together."

Dean started to speak but Sam interrupted him. "We also need an evergreen, a really specific one. Got any ideas?"

"I might know someone who could get it. What's the name of it?"

"Not sure, but the lore called it "The fruit of the evergreen mountains." The fruit of this thing is poison to him."

The nodded thoughtfully. "Leave that to me. I'll get it."

"Oh! Great. So now, you just happen to know how to get your hands on the one thing we can't find. How coincidental."

Merida gave Dean an acid glare, then turned back toward Sam. "I'm gonna go get this evergreen, and anything else I can find to help us destroy this thing." She gestured at Dean. "Keep this dog on a leash."

"Fuck you-"

Sam sighed.

"And Sam?" She met his eyes directly and gave him a meaningful look. "You said the McLaughlins moved out. Look around. Keep an eye out for anything…special… they might have left behind. You never know. It could be a dealbreaker." She smiled coyly. "See you tonight."

She vanished.

Dean glared at him.

"How the hell does she do that? And do you wanna tell me why you're so gung-ho to trust this bitch?"

"We-"

"We what, Sam? What? Because she's the shadiest thing since the palm tree."

"What choice do we have? Do you have another way to find the evergreen to kill this thing?"

"No, but-"

"And isn't it better to have the banshee's BMW nearby us in case she hulks out? We can keep her from hurting anybody, Dean."

"That's not the point-"

"I know it's not." Sam sighed and sat in one of the chairs. "I know that. But…it just seems like you're overreacting a little on this."

"Overreacting?"

Sam put his face in his hands.

"Overreacting to a woman who's basically mind-fucked you every way but doggy-style? Who's both the monster and the only source of information we have?"

Sam hesitated. "Nevermind."

"No, Sam, spit it out. What is the hold that this girl has over you?"

For a moment, he considered it. For a second, he opened his mouth to tell Dean what they were planning. Why he really needed Merida. Why they both did. And then he didn't.

He'd never agree to it, Sam reminded himself. He'd just find a way to stop it. Hell, maybe part of him wants to go to hell.

No.

Sam had to save him.

"I'm going to look around for clues in the house," Sam said. "You keep searching out here."

Sam stood and walked away.

"Sam!"

But he didn't turn back.

Sorry for the long delay. Hope you enjoyed! Don't forget to drop me a line.