As far as houses went, the Stampler residence was egregiously, overwhelmingly, normal.
In fact, one would be hard pressed to remember it compared to all the other white-picket houses in the neighborhood. A 'Live, Laugh, Love' sign made of recycled wood hung cheerily next to the front door.
"Looks more like Martha Stewart's house than a hunter's den," Dean said.
"It wouldn't draw any attention, though," Sam pointed out.
Dean rose his hand up toward the door, then paused. He grinned and banged on the wood. "FBI! Open up!" he barked.
They listened. Dimly, something was dropped or slammed inside the house. Dean rapped on the door again, enough for it to shake the frame and rattle windows. "Open up! We know you're in there!" He turned to smirk at his brother, clearly happy with himself.
Sam shook his head. "Really?"
Dean grinned. "Betcha one of them pees his pants."
Sam sighed.
Something moved in the house. Then, the faint thuds of footsteps.
A moment later, Shawn and Gus emerged from around the hedges at the side of the house. Tiny leaves and branches were strewn in their hair and clothes. Both attempted to walk casually as if just noticing the agents there for the first time. "Oh, hello," Shawn said between breaths. "You're here too? That's a coincidence," he panted.
Gus tried to speak but was still trying to breathe.
"Fancy meeting you here," Dean said.
Sam frowned, squinting in a mix of confusion and awkwardness on behalf of someone else. "Did you, just… climb over that hedge fence?"
Shawn and Gus guffawed. "No."
"Gus and I were just… looking around. Are you going inside?" Shawn asked innocently. "If so, we'd like to poke around, too."
"Right," Sam said, almost wincing. He couldn't remember the last time he felt that bad on behalf of another person. It was a similar feeling to wanting to curl up somewhere, a million miles from civilization, and die. "You've got some, uh-" he gestured towards his own hair.
The duo hastily shook away the bits of leaves. "How'd that get there?" Shawn laughed.
"We took a shortcut. Inspecting the backyard," Gus said.
"Yeah, whatever you say," Dean said, unimpressed. "FBI Business. Stay out of our way, alright?"
Sam looked over their two visitors. It was the first time seeing them in the clear light of day, away from the bustle and dozens of distractions in the police station. Shawn wore a basic plaid button-up shirt, loose and casual, with jeans and sneakers. Gus wore a crisp, ironed button-up that was markedly more professional. He wore slacks, a belt, and shoes better suited to an office. There was also the way they seemed desperate to appear far more collected than they were. This was, in part, due to how they still gasped for breath, yet tried to lean casually onto a nearby fence; as if they stumbled upon each other by happenstance.
It was absurd. Yet how were they so confident about it? Sam couldn't help but think of some other, similarly cocky people they'd met on hunts. People who had no idea the dangers that lurked out there, or simply didn't know what they were doing. It was like kicking a nest of bees armed only with hairspray and hoping for the best. Idiots got themselves killed. Even seasoned hunters often didn't make it out alive on some hunts.
The last thing they needed was two bumbling local police consultants- including a supposed psychic, no less- getting in their way. Nothing made shooting ghosts or demons harder than civilians running around and screaming. They looked like screamers, too.
Yet, they weren't shaken by Dean messing with them. And they were still hoping to pretend to go into the house next to two FBI agents. And part of Sam wondered, just maybe, if Shawn was actually a psychic. Just… an eccentric one. But most of all, if there was anything demonic in the house, those two idiots wouldn't last a second. And… would probably pee their pants.
"Sure," Sam found himself saying to the duo. "You can come along. Just…" he paused, mentally berating himself. He forced out the words with a sigh. "Stay close to us, alright? Don't go looking around by yourselves. It may not be safe."
Shawn and Gus exchanged a casual look, then nodded. "Fair enough," Gus said.
Dean almost glared at Sam. Sam discreetly shrugged.
The front door was conveniently unlocked. Sam had a strong suspicion that the psychic or his partner had picked the lock.
He was absolutely right. Although he didn't know that.
With a glance, Dean opened the door and led the way inside.
The house was immaculately decorated, but not quite enough to be featured on a magazine, although it hoped to be one day. Soothing white hues on the walls contrasted with classic wooden furniture, accented with modern geometric patterns throughout.
Dean held his homemade EMF detector at his waist, connected to earbuds that let him hear readings. The brothers kept within view of each other, drifting from room to room out of habitual routine. Everything looked perfectly in place, reeking of a woman's design touch.
Shawn and Gus kept behind the two FBI agents, but away just enough that they could whisper amongst themselves as needed. They'd gotten a quick look around the house before they were interrupted and had yet to look into clues specific to the victim. "Why's he listening to music? On a Walkman, no less," Shawn whispered to Gus.
Gus shrugged. "Maybe he doesn't think MP3 players will last. And iPods are expensive."
They moved from the living area into the kitchen, upstairs idly through the bedrooms, then downstairs again into the garage. It was big enough for two cars and empty, save for racks of gardening tools and housewares. The agents seemed particularly interested in the shovels and wood axe. They checked the storage bins, looking for something, only to come up dry. But that wasn't enough. They ran their hands carefully under shelves and desks, rapping on the occasional wall. Looking for items hidden or secret compartments, most likely. Nothing made itself known.
As they drifted back into the house and started down a hallway, Shawn shouted, "I'm getting something!" He raised a hand to his temple and shut his eyes. "I'm sensing… A male presence. Trapped, in his own home! Amidst a woman's feminine wiles. A den, of sorts… I'm seeing… Wingdings! Gah!"
The FBI agents just stared in confusion.
"I think he's seeing symbols!" Gus said.
"Yes! An office… An office to contain his scary cult-ness! But it's hidden- yes, it holds a secret, not to be seen by prying eyes. Or his wife's."
"You mean 'occult'," Agent Patrick said.
Shawn jerked forward as if pulled by a invisible force, then suddenly relaxed. He raised a brow. "Maybe."
Agent Utah, the shorter of the two agents, led them to a pair of glass-paned double doors leading to an office. "Yeah. Sure. Probably had nothing to do with scoping the place out before we got here, right?"
"We don't know what you're talking about," Gus said defiantly.
Agent Patrick sighed.
To describe the study as a 'mess' would be charitable, and a disservice to the nightmares it would induce for the faint of heart- as well as neat freaks from all walks of life. Many might recognize the 'orderly chaos' of intense work. Papers, books, and incoherent notes were scattered about nearly every surface. (Although, fortunately, the floor was still visible.) Pastel bookcases with beach charm clashed with monstrous books on spirits. Talismans and pendants sat in front of an otherwise very nice collection of starfish artfully arranged on a shelf. A large mounted corkboard was covered in a mess of written notes, ads, brochures, statistics, and newspaper articles. The topics ranged from the unusual to seeming innocuous and random. Pictures of occult symbols and everything even vaguely related to them were printed or sketched out. Books and magazines were scattered on the desk, across a reading table, and even stacked in the small corner chair. Little, creepy figurines were piled up on a shelf. Just like the kind Big Louie and others at the tattoo shop wore.
Earlier, Shawn and Gus had only gotten a glimpse of the study before being scared half to death by harsh knocking on the door. Looking at it up close, it was even worse than they thought. "Apparently, our victim is a fifteen-year-old who works at Hot Topic," Shawn said. "That, or he's related to Tim Burton."
"This man needed Jesus," Gus said.
"Too late for that," Agent Patrick muttered.
"No wonder his wife wanted to leave him."
The agents looked over everything carefully, scrutinizing symbols and writings in detail. "Witchcraft… New Age Healing… Occult study… Egyptian Mythology… Palm Readings… Cults… This guy had quite the reading list." Patrick said. He glanced at his partner as if looking for an update, but Utah looked up from his walkman and gave the slightest shake of his head. Patrick frowned, thoughtful.
Shawn spied other things; things the agents didn't seem to notice. There were big, numbered reports of numbers in printed tables showing percentages year-to-year. Pens lay scattered about. Sales brochures for all kinds of items and businesses. A large crafting knife lay on the desk next to a gap in papers where a laptop might usually go. Tacky, large keychains hung off of a series of pegs on the wall next to the desk.
Mixed amongst the bookshelves were a fair number of normal, exceedingly boring-looking books, along with some dictionaries for foreign languages. The big kind that Shawn loathed as a kid. They would've made great doorstops, though. Or paperweights.
"You, uh, getting anything?"
Shawn found it was Agent Patrick who asked the question. It nearly scared him how unexpected it was. His brows raised just enough for Gus to notice, and they traded a look that said, 'That's very interesting that the previously skeptical and somewhat scary FBI Agent is suddenly interested in what we have to say.'
It would've been like scoring points for the enemy team. Shawn would be running toward the enemy endzone, ball clutched to his chest, and then gifting it to the other team with a big, poofy red bow on it, like the kind car dealerships used. He always wondered where they got those. He didn't have anything from the room or house- not yet, at least- but he could still throw them a bone.
Gus could tell exactly what Shawn was thinking. Discreetly, from across the room, he shook his head in warning.
Shawn smiled. Then his hand shot upward, spinning in a large circle overhead. "The spirits! They're… angry! But they're elsewhere!"
He just couldn't resist.
Patrick and Utah snapped to attention, watching him intently. Shawn mimed riding a small horse. "I'm sensing… He's going to something. Or somewhere."
Patrick frowned. "He… rode horses?" he asked lamely.
Gus shook his head, but still supplied. "I think it's a type of horse."
"There's different types?" Utah asked.
"Charlie! Mustang!" Shawn shouted.
The answer struck Patrick like lightning. "A colt!"
Utah stared. "Wait, you mean like a gun?"
Sam's mind was racing. Could it be? They'd used a particular Colt Paterson handgun- a very special weapon that was created for instantly killing demons and other types of monsters. They'd found it and used it before. It was a one-of-a-kind weapon. And it was an important part of their lives. Was the psychic for real? Did he truly see the Colt? Maybe he was-
"No," Shawn said.
Sam deflated. It was like he found out he hadn't won the lottery after all. He shared a skeptical glance with Dean.
Shawn pointed, his voice still dramatic and mysterious. "Not a gun… Nay, not a horse, either! I see… A place."
"Do you mean a cult?" Gus asked.
"Yes! A cult."
Sam sighed. "We already know he was interested in the occult."
"Not 'the occult'," Gus said. "A cult."
"It can be used as a noun. But it's 'the occult'."
"I know that," Gus said pointedly, "But so is 'cult'. As in, 'a cult.'"
"Oh! You mean… Like, a group of people gathering together."
"Sometimes to talk about the occult."
"A cult about the occult, as it were," Shawn said.
"Wow," Dean drawled. "This is the worst conversation I've ever heard."
Shawn nodded. "Yes, I'm seeing… A group of… creepy, like-minded individuals. I'm seeing our victim, tag along, into the group, alongside someone who is big and yet also small! Right here…" Shawn paused for dramatic effect, looking back at everyone in the room,"In Santa Barbara."
"You're saying this guy joined some cult nearby?" Dean asked.
"How do you know this?" Sam asked. Shawn opened his mouth to answer, but Sam waved him off. "Nevermind. Psychic. Right."
"You wouldn't know any cults in the area, do you?" Gus asked.
The brothers shared a brief glance. They straightened, and Dean cleared his throat, speaking more professionally, "We'll, uh, look into it. It'll take some time to check with our records at the bureau."
"Thanks for the tip," Sam nodded.
"Question," Shawn asked, looking at the 'Agents.' They listened attentively. "Are you the guys who come after someone for not filing taxes?"
It took Sam a moment to register the question. "Uh, no. That's the IRS."
Shawn frowned in confusion. "What do the Irish want with my taxes? That's a bit extreme."
Gus scoffed. "That's the IRA, Shawn."
"Really? No, that can't be right."
The FBI Agents combed the study thoroughly while Shawn and Gus did their own search. It was a jumble of things, like a pile of Scrabble letters, which said nothing of particular on their own. That part would most likely come later. They needed clues from the cult for that, most likely.
But the Agents seemed very interested in the specific books, notes, and items in the office, so Shawn and Gus put on a good show of looking at things even more closely.
After a time, Agent Patrick jerked his head towards the hall, sharing another silent message with his partner. "Would you excuse us?" They left for the privacy of the hallway.
"And don't touch anything!" Utah half-barked over his shoulder.
"What do you think? New hunter? Sam asked, keeping his voice low, even as they were some steps away from the office.
Dean pocketed the EMF detector. Not that he'd found any readings with it in the house. That wasn't a surprise, he thought. Even he knew anything cursed should be locked far away where anyone might get to it. Unless it was salted and burned, which was the preferred method. He nodded. "Looks like. All that research started giving me flashbacks to Dad and his notes back in the day."
There wasn't a sign of any hunter's research elsewhere in the house. If anything, it seemed all sequestered in the office.
"And the wife doesn't know about it. She just thinks he's… having a crisis, or an affair, or something."
"Can't blame him for trying to protect her," Dean shook his head. "Mrs. Barbie wouldn't want to go after demons for date night, and he's no Ken."
"No rock salt, no demon traps, no guns that we can find… A newbie wouldn't necessarily know to have those things, though. It even took us a little while to figure out demons, after all."
"Wife said he was gone a lot at night, right?" Dean asked. "Perfect time for hunting. Checking for ghosts, digging up bodies, all that. Hell, he probably heard about it on TV somewhere. Guy had no idea what he was getting into, he tries to moonlight as a hunter, he gets toasted. Seems pretty clear cut to me."
Sam frowned in thought. As he spoke, pieces started to fall into place, the words coming out quicker. "And he worked at the newspaper. He probably had access to everything happening in the area. Probably even more than that- sometimes news stations have affiliates in other regions. He would've had priority access to… Well, anything. The latest reports, witnesses, journalist sources, previous records…"
"Let's not get too jealous, okay?"
Sam huffed a laugh. "It would beat sorting through local library files like we do. If anything strange was reported, he'd be able to know about it right away. Perfect for a hunter. It makes sense."
"Too bad he couldn't figure out the rest of it. If he had guns, he didn't keep them here. No rock salt, either."
Sam paused. "It's just… He didn't seem to be researching any one thing in particular. It's like he was trying to learn all of it, everything a hunter might deal with."
"So?"
"Maybe he didn't know exactly what he was hunting. Maybe he just noticed something strange and tried to figure out what it was. I mean… We do it all the time. Usually when we find news of something strange we have to dig around in the lore to identify it. What if… what if he really was involved in a cult? What if that's what he was investigating- Some of those books were the real deal, ones we've looked at before. If there's a group he was looking into, maybe it's a cover for demons."
Dean squinted in disbelief. "You're gonna start believing the hack 'psychic' now?"
Sam shrugged. "They probably picked it up at the police station, or somewhere. Some clue they found. Maybe they heard a local rumor. I dunno. I think it checks."
There was a loud thud from somewhere behind them. Dean grumbled, not unlike a preschool teacher who suspected the children were breaking into the snacks when they were supposed to be napping. It certainly felt that way, sometimes, with some of the people they ended up working with. It didn't help that he thought he saw some totems and sharp objects in the study. He didn't want to think about what those two 'psychics' might've gotten into.
Dean turned back down the hall, Sam right behind him. He stuck his head into the study. "Hey, what'd we say?"
Shawn and Gus stood there, in the middle of the room, their arms and hands to themselves and far away from any possibly dangerous items. They stared at Dean. Then, they looked at each other with concerned looks. Then they looked back to Dean like two children who were actually behaving themselves for once. "Uh, that wasn't us," Gus said.
Dean frowned.
A loud 'thud' sounded overhead. All eyes drew upward.
"Someone's upstairs," Sam whispered.
The group quietly crept back into the hallway. The brothers tensed, going on high alert, both taking out their handguns and checking them. Dean turned to Shawn and Gus, speaking at a whisper. "You guys stay here. You hear anything come towards you, you run out the house, away from whatever it is. Got it? Now stay quiet."
Shawn and Gus nodded repeatedly.
Silently, the brothers crept upstairs, step by step. Dean went first. That was the duty of the firstborn; an idea so firmly engraved upon his brain it would show up on an MRI.
They worked their way past the first set of rooms, heading toward the back of the house that sat over the study. Both brothers crept forward, guns raised and pointing in room and corner as they passed. There was no sign of any other sounds or movement. Finally, they reached the master bedroom. Big windows lined the rear wall facing the backyard. Roofing of the first floor poked up just underneath the windows. Something shifted, then rattled; a dresser drawer was opened. Items were being moved.
Dean went to the left side of the door, Sam to the right. Silently, with a look, then a nod, they swung forward.
"Hold it!" Dean barked. A black-clad slim figure was there, caught bending over the wardrobe. He jerked upright to see them. A black mask covered all but his eyes.
"Stop right there!" Sam called.
Time froze for the briefest instant; yet it seemed to last much longer, the man caught in his act, his empty hands outstretched before him. Everyone was caught off-guard, the shock of it throwing instincts and training by the wayside, if just for a second.
But that was all he needed. The man bolted. He leapt through the open window and skid down the roofing. He barely kept balance at the edge, swinging onto a trellis. He climbed down.
Dean jumped in after him. "Go low!" he managed to keep balance on the roof. He shoved the gun in his waistband and hurried over to the side. The man was already hitting the ground, and took off through the backyard, struggling through the dense hedges bordering it. Dean struggled with the trellis; his suit making it hard to fully move.
Shawn and Gus stood downstairs, listening with interest. But standing still and doing as they were told was never something they were good at. Shawn had practically made a career out of it. And it was that mindset that caused them to run towards the backdoor the moment they saw a black-clad man start running there.
"Dude, is that a ninja?!" Shawn yelled as they ripped open the back door.
"There are no ninjas in Santa Barbara, Shawn. We're not going arguing about this again!" Gus shouted.
The masked man struggled through the dense foliage by the fence, but made it through quickly enough.
Shawn and Gus ran; their little legs and hearts working until their bodies could take it no more; their lungs aching for air, their legs collapsing like an ancient running man flash game.
"Well, we tried," Shawn said easily.
Gus nodded.
They had made it to the edge of the backyard.
Agent Patrick zoomed past them. He pushed roughly through the bushes and found himself in another backyard.
"Go on, man! You've got this!" They shouted.
Dimly, Sam heard shouts of cheers behind him, like he was running a marathon. Despite the sense of danger and adrenaline, admittedly, he felt more empowered by it.
The invader was up ahead, ducking through a side gate. Sam debated firing a warning shot but knew it would've been disastrous in a dense suburban neighborhood like that. And he had no idea if the intruder was actually dangerous. He holstered his gun and ran.
Whoever it was, he was fit and quick on his feet. He easily ran through a children's playset, nimbly scaled a tree that stretched out low from the ground, and jumped over the tall fence next to it. Sam rushed forward. He looked for a gate, a break in the planks, anything- nothing. By the time he managed to get high enough on the tree, he was treated with a maze of suburbia; perfectly separated backyards, a labyrinth of fences, palm trees, sculpted shrubs, pools, and plenty of buildings to obscure everything else. There was no sign of the man anywhere.
Panting from exertion, Sam trudged back to the house.
Dean stood in the backyard. "You lose him?"
Sam nodded, placing his hands on his hips. His suit was now very stuffy and uncomfortable. He sighed. "He gave me the slip."
"It was a good try," Shawn said, still trying to catch his own breath in the most exaggerated way.
Sam scoffed. "You ran like five feet!"
Dean shot a look towards Shawn and Gus. "Hey, what'd I say about staying inside?"
"Is that what you said?" Shawn asked, sharing a look with his partner. "I just heard 'run out of the house'."
Before Shawn or Gus could reply, both brothers trudged back inside, shaking their heads.
After a quick glance of the bedroom showed nothing had been taken, the group drifted to the foyer. Shawn and Gus slid away so the Agents wouldn't be able to overhear.
"It wasn't a ninja, Shawn. Why would a ninja come into the house?" Gus asked.
"You're right…" he admitted, disappointed. "It's crazy. Ninjas don't join cults, everyone knows that. Although…" he weighed the thought, "One might say they're a cult of their own."
"You think it was a cult member?"
"I dunno, maybe. He didn't have a limp, though." Shawn saw in his mind, with perfect clarity, the hole of broken planks in the dock where the body was found. "We know one of the people seen disposing the body would've had one."
"They still could've been an accomplice! There's no way that's a coincidence. Those cultists are used to wearing creepy outfits, anyway." Gus considered. "Big Louie thought a demon killed Stampler. Why would a demon dress like that? And why break into their victim's house? Unless… Maybe it was a human who summoned the demon in the first place! He could've planted a cursed item!"
Shawn scoffed, smirking. "There's just one flaw with that theory."
"And that is?"
"None of that is real. Demons, spirits, magic, none of it exists, Gus!"
"I know you're a skeptic, Shawn, but those things do exist. You're just scared to admit it."
Shawn chuckled. "Me? Scared? I'm not-" His smile vanished, his gaze turning into a hundred and eighty-nine-yard-stare. A deep, rumbling gurgle escaped his throat. Then, speaking with a voice that wasn't his own, he chanted, "Pi-e Lesu- Domine… Don na Ea-eis Requiem."
Gus stared, his eyes wide. "That's the spell you did when we were kids! In your garage!"
"Yes, I remember. Fun fact: Did you know that fishing line, in darkness, can be virtually invisible?"
Gus stared. "You did that? As a prank?! I can't believe this. I had nightmares for weeks!"
Shawn grinned. "It's the chant from Monty Python, Gus! The monks with the planks of wood! Don't take it so personally. It taught you an important lesson that day: that scary, magic things can't hurt you, and you're stronger for it."
But Shawn's easy smile had no effect on Gus, who glowered, then glared, and stared indignantly at Shawn. It was a look Shawn knew well. Gus had been pushed beyond the invisible line, on the other side of which was: 'Nope.'
Gus spun on his heel as if Shawn no longer existed. He strode purposefully to the front door, swung it open, and marched outside. The door slammed behind him.
Both FBI Agents stared at Shawn uncomfortably. "Uh…" Patrick started.
Shawn shuffled over and forced a smile. "He's fine, he just needs some air," he chuckled in a way that convinced no one.
Agent Patrick looked out the window. "He's walking to the car…"
Shawn chuckled. "I'm sure he just forgot something."
"He's… Getting in the driver's seat."
"He'll be right back."
A car started across the street.
Patrick frowned. "And… He's driving away."
Agent Utah smirked. "Spirits didn't tell you about that one, huh?"
Shawn laughed, awkwardly, before his smile all but fell. He cleared his throat. "I don't suppose I could get a ride back to the station…?"
Utah smiled. "Not a chance."
Patrick frowned, obviously sympathetic, and gave a faint look towards his partner.
A few moments later, Shawn slid into the back seat of the Impala.