Moving Sharron Howard seemed counterproductive. If the Winchesters were truly trying to kill her, the easiest way of catching them in the act would be at her home. If it was something else trying to kill her – well, the same held true. They needed Ms. Howard where she was expected to be. It was a risky gamble, Mulder was well aware of that and didn't need Scully's frowns and pinched expressions to remind him.

Certainly not when he had a scowling Ms. Howard also glaring at him most of the afternoon. She hadn't taken to them inviting themselves over with much grace. She had asked more than once about Agent Peter Venkman and whether or not it would be possible to trade them out for him. Each time she asked, Scully got that torn expression she often had when she couldn't decide whether something was so ridiculous it was hilarious or if she just wanted to (metaphorically) knock some sense into people. Being on the receiving end of the latter, Mulder could attest to its impressiveness.

There wasn't much to do to pass the time. Scully had spent the early part of the afternoon asking very carefully worded questions, sometimes repeating herself to see if Ms. Howard's story would change. Once that lost its appeal, and Ms. Howard stormed off to bed, it was just the two of them waiting and watching and listening. Scully had her notes to review. Mulder had borrowed her laptop to try to make some headway on deciphering the markings, but after waiting ten minutes for one page of text to load, he gave it up. He set it up to email a few of the clearer pictures to some of his contacts and waited for them to load.

And waited. About each tenth time he paced from one end of the room to the other, one percent had loaded. How anyone got work done with patchy internet like this, he didn't know. And with nothing else to do but wait, he found his patience wearing thin.

"They have to know we'd be watching tonight," Scully commented ideally, not looking up from her homework.

"I know. But if they're as dedicated to this as we think they are, they won't let that stop them."

She hummed but didn't argue. "Shall we take shifts?"

It was going to be a long night.

They parked the Impala four blocks away, and cut through a couple of dark fields. Sharron's part of town was a bit more built up than others, but most of it was new construction that valued parking lots and space over being within walking distance of civilization. That made it a bit easier to move around without being noticed.

Dean had tried arguing for going in alone, but Sam had shot that down swiftly. His brother might think it was acceptable to take all kinds of risks now that he was back from the dead – as if having one miracle somehow made him indestructible. All Sam saw was how easy it was to make a mistake in this business. His brother was an idiot, and if they were going to continue with this job then they were going to do it together.

Dean had taken some precautions, however. They were dressed in dark clothing, with what few supplies they needed distributed evenly between them. They had mapped out escape routes and meet up points. Dean had suggested sabotaging the Feds' vehicle, but agreed in the end that it was too risky to try. They had each step planned out, with back-up plans and oh-shit plans and Bobby already notified that this might go pear shaped and to be ready for phone calls.

Really, Dean had probably had a little too much fun planning it all out as if he were some kind of James Bond spy. Sam just wanted to make some progress. Hours spent staring at his computer screen and riffling in old books hadn't turned up much. They had a few phrases, the easy ones. Some of it was basic cryptology and ruins. The only pattern he had been able to find was silence and containment. Which might have something to do with why Cas had sent them on this assignment to begin with. Both brothers still had doubts about how helpful the angels really were being, but this job seemed legit. And even if it wasn't, there were lives on the line and they weren't going to walk away now.

They entered Sharron's apartment complex calmly, walking as if they belonged there but bundled up tightly incoats and scarf to stay away from prying eyes. Walking through the old snow presented some challenges, but thankfully much of it had been beaten down over the last few days and their own prints would be mixed in among the many. It was still cold enough to keep most people in doors. It was getting late, but there were still signs of life. Folks watching their preferred late night shows. Someone a street over taking out the trash before bed. The time of night that it wasn't too unusual to see two men walking determinedly home but still late enough that there should be few people to even notice.

Dean led them around the back of the building they wanted. He'd already had a look at the layout and Sam let him take point in assigning tasks. Sam's job had been to think up as many protections as possible. Devil's traps would have been the best choice, but they were large and complex. Not exactly something you could tag a suburban household with and not get caught doing. So they settled on protective charms and symbols. A hodgepodge of work that wouldn't necessarily stop evil, but would slow it down and draw attention.

That last part was the section Sam wasn't one hundred percent sure on, but based on his research, it should cause a visual reaction on about the same level of a Fourth of July light show. Anyone still awake and in the vicinity would know something was happening, even if they didn't understand what. And they knew for a fact that there would be two Feds watching the house and would react if anything unusual happened. Might as well use the presence of the Feds to their advantage. Even demons didn't like having that much official attention.

And of course, there was always salt.

Granted, neither of them had tried laying salt lines outside of a building, but there was a first time for everything. So while Sam tested out his drawing skills, Dean got to work pouring out a combination of heavy road salt and common table salt. They hoped the irregularity of the grains would make it spread easier and stay put. Especially since Dean had to cover under each of the windows quickly and without being seen.

The last step was the back porch, a small wooden structure turned grey from the elements and only about a foot off of the ground. Sam and Dean both stared at it and then each other. Covering the back door was an important element. Perhaps the only portion they could reliably do using the traditional method. The back porch was wood and provided enough cover to give someone the time to draw out a devil's trap. But there wasn't a lot of clearance between the ground and the structure and the ground was cold and damp where it wasn't still snow covered.

Dean smirked and gestured gracefully for Sam to continue his work. Sam scowled and waved both hands to indicate the distinct height difference and the ridiculousness of the very idea. Then there was a lot of violent silent finger-pointing.

The light from the window shifted and they both dropped down onto their stomachs. The silhouette of a man was visible in the window of the backdoor and they both held still until the light shifted again, growing brighter. The Feds were definitely keeping a watch out for them.

Dean punched his brother in the arm before snatching up the large permanent marker and wiggling his way under the structure. There was barely enough room for him to fit and he had to nudge himself forward by jerking and twitching each limb. It was pathetic and probably cold and muddy and disgusting. Which would have been fine with Sam, but he still had to stay down on the ground himself while he waited for him and the snow was starting to melt from his body heat and was finding its way through his outer clothes.

After what seemed like ages, he could hear the rustling sound of his brother moving again. Backing his way out may have been instinctive, but it certainly wasn't very wise. About half way his progress stopped suddenly. Sam could make out the shape of his boots trying to find traction in the mud, and there was plenty of noise, but no progress.

Sam gave him a moment. Nothing changed except for the pauses and starts of the sound of Dean flailing about. "Dean!" Sam hissed out.

"'m stuck!" Dean whispered back.

Sam nearly dropped his head in frustration but he remembered at the last moment the pile of slushy snow beneath him. He scooted himself forward, trying not to drag the snow into his collar or up his sleeves. Once he was close enough, he took a firm grip of his brother's ankles, braced his knees in the snow and tugged.

It wasn't graceful, but it was effective. There was the sound of fabric tearing, startlingly loud in the quiet of the night, and then suddenly Sam's brother came sliding out like a greased pig and made a noise about right for one.

"Cold! Cold!" Dean flipped over immediately, hands pawing at his own stomach trying to get his rucked-up shirt and jacket back down. And trying to get the snow out from underneath.

"Dumbass," Sam hissed, grabbing his arm and hauling him to his feet. They'd made enough noise to wake somebody. Certainly enough to draw the attention of a watching Fed. Sam got them both up on their feet, bent over to keep their silhouette below the railing line, and moving into the next yard over and then the one beyond that.

They stopped, sheltered in the shadows of a shed at the back end of the property. It gave them a good sightline of the back porch and Sam watched for the man's head to appear in the window again. And sure enough it did, right before the light in the kitchen was suddenly cut off. Sam watched, waiting, and eventually one darker shadow finally moved away from the window.

Dean was still mutter curses and patting at his damp front ineffectively.

"You almost got us caught," Sam told him sourly.

"Bitch," Dean replied before shifting gears. "Everything set?"

Sam shrugged. "As best as we can do. This will only work while she's at home, and the last disappearance was in public."

Dean's grumbling took on a sharper tone but Sam was used to it. Dean didn't handle frustration well and liked to share that. "It's the best we can do," he repeated stubbornly. "Nothing for it but to hunker down and wait for the bastard to show his face."

It was going to be one long cold wait.

"Shifts," Dean muttered, several hours later. His hands were tucked up into his armpits and his feet were the kind of numb that wasn't dangerous yet but sure as hell wasn't fun. March may technically count as spring, but this part of the world hadn't gotten that message. And while the shed gave the brothers some protection and they had dressed for a cold night outdoors, there was only so long a man could stand around doing nothing before he felt like his balls were going to freeze off.

"We're going to have to start taking shifts."

Sammy just nodded.

"Sheriff Brooks? Good morning. This is Agent Scully."

Mulder opened one gummy eye. That was Scully's professional polite voice. It was different enough from the more thoughtful sharp tone she used when talking with him that it brought him out of the light doze he'd been drifting along for the last couple of hours. She was standing in the kitchen, voice lowered courteously and her hair glowing in the early morning light. She continued talking, leading her side of the conversation as she paced across the patch of linoleum that delineated the separation of the two rooms.

"Everything's fine. A very quiet night…No, nothing to report…We weren't sure what might happen…At this point we can't rule anything out. That's actually why I'm calling, Sheriff. We still have concerns about the safety of Ms. Howard. Could you spare a man today to keep an eye on her at her workplace?..Yes, it has been a long night…Thank you, we appreciate the assistance…We will, thank you again. We'll check in in a few hours."

She hung up the phone and turned to face him. "Get any sleep?"

"A little," he answered, sitting up from the couch and rubbing at his face. His tie had gone crooked on him at some point in the night, but he only straightened it enough to keep it from choking him. "Sheriff's going to take over babysitting?"

"He gave us until 4pm to rest up."

"Oh, that's nice. What are we doing instead?"

Scully smiled. "I've got a list of people to talk to. Want half?"

"Sure," Mulder replied as if there was nothing he'd rather do more than chase down what was likely to be dead ends. At the moment, however, they had nothing else. The Winchester brothers hadn't shown themselves, which rather soured Mulder's mood. He had been certain they would do something in the night. Dean had seemed convinced that Sharron Howard was their best lead to the murderer.

Essentially, he and Scully had wasted the entire night…

"Are you people still here?" their hostess asked testily when she emerged from her bedroom.

…and he and Scully had made idiots out of themselves as well. At least the Sheriff sounded like he had the decency to treat their odd fixation as a viable possibility.

Mulder ignored the rest of the room and set about gathering his things. Scully was the better diplomat of the two of them and he had learned to keep his mouth shut and let her handle things. Sometimes. When they were unpleasant and he didn't want to deal with it anyway.

It didn't take much to get him ready to go out the door. But the door itself stuck slightly as he pushed it open, moving only begrudgingly and with a dry crunching noise. Mulder paused and looked down.

"You put out salt last night?" Mulder called back into the apartment, interrupting whatever it was Sharron and Scully were saying to each other. He knew the answer already, since he and Scully had been the last people in or out of this door. But it seemed the thing to ask when presented with the peculiar.

Running from nearly one end of the front porch to the other was a thick line of salt. It looked a bit like the kind of heavy road salt you saw in the streets or on sidewalks. But instead of being liberally distributed over the walk area, it was piled deeply about three inches wide and almost an inch tall.

Scully leaned over him as he crouched down to study it. "It's also on the windows," she commented calmly. This was hardly the oddest thing they had ever seen. "I'll check the back," she added, as blessedly practical as ever.

Sharron hovered closer in her wake, peeking around him to see what was so interesting. "Weird," she pronounced.

"Would one of your neighbors have maybe done this? Or the apartment office?"

She shook her head. "We're responsible for our own sidewalks. Why would anyone put out salt when it's dry? We haven't had snow or rain in a while. Oh."

He turned to look at her. That was a very distinctive 'oh'. He heard it far too often from people. "Yes?"

"Well, didn't Agent Venkman say something about salt?"

"Did he?" Mulder prompted, wishing for not the first time that he had been able to witness Dean's form of questioning a person of interest. He'd obviously done better at gaining Ms. Howard's cooperation. And apparently he'd been more talkative with her than he had Mulder.

Sharron shrugged. "I dunno. He said he might stop by. Then something about salt and not to worry about it."

"Really."

"There's salt along the back windows and door too," Scully called out to him as she came back to the front of the apartment. "And some marks the may be fresh but it's hard to tell. There's too much moisture."

"It's all slush and mud this time of year," Sharron agreed in that kind of absent tone of people talking about the weather. Not about criminals lurking around her back door. Though Mulder supposed she hadn't made the connection yet.

Mulder and Scully shared a look. They may not have had the confrontation with the Winchesters that they wanted, but they had been right that the boys had been by in the night. They hadn't given up on the case.

"We might need a library," Mulder told Scully, his plans for the day changing. "And better internet. I need to brush up on my lore."