Shawn knew a great deal about cars. For one thing, they had four wheels and some windows. They also weren't as cool as motorcycles, for another, which was particularly important when trying to impress a girl. He also remembered something about a president inventing cars decades, maybe centuries ago. He wasn't clear on the details. Also, cars used to be powered by the driver's feet.

He preferred his motorcycle. Although, even he had to admit, as he slid into the black seat of the Impala, noting its vintage, tan interior and spotless chrome trimmings- some cars did seem pretty cool. (He made a note to be dropped off around the corner away from the police station. And Jules.)

"Don't touch anything," Agent Utah gruffly said from the driver's seat. Agent Patrick climbed into to passenger's seat.

"Well, if you say so," Shawn said. "Can I touch the seat belt, or…?"

"What?"

"You said not to touch anything."

"Yeah, you can use the seat belt," Agent Patrick said, confused.

Shawn buckled in. He leaned toward the driver's door. "Question. Is your dad Wilton Knight?"

Utah paused. "As in, Knight Rider?"

"No, 'Wilton Knight' of the cake decorating company."

"The what?"

"They make little cake pans shaped like cuddly animals."

Utah shook his head and settled into his seat. He did it with a familiar, comfortable ease; a relaxing of the shoulders from muscle memory. Agent Patrick did much the same. It reminded Shawn of coming back to the Psych office after a busy day. The release of tension as they plopped into their respective chairs, at their respective desks, and busying themselves with snacks and watching television. Lulled by the comfort of routine.

Shawn leaned back in his seat. Down to his left, in the ashtray on the door, a little green army man was crammed into the chrome dish. That was strange. It certainly wasn't something he'd expected to see in the car of two FBI agents driving around for work.

Interesting.

Utah turned the key, and the car rumbled to life. The radio started to blare a rock ballad. Patrick reached forward toward the volume knob. Utah slapped his hand away.

"Ow!"

"Driver controls the music," Utah recited as they pulled away from the curb.

Shawn frowned. He also found that very interesting.

"Could you at least turn it down?" Patrick whined.

Utah reached for the dial, but a quick glance in the rear-view mirror made his eyes meet with Shawn's. Instantly, he straightened in his seat, cleared his throat, and left the volume at its somewhat-loud-but-not-painfully-loud level.

Beside him, Patrick also sat up straighter, envoke that of a professional, and appeared to look out the window thoughtfully.

"You said you could direct us around the construction?" Patrick asked.

"Yes. Start by going straight here, five stoplights, then turn left on 'Bay Avenue'," Shawn said distractedly. He glanced around the car.

It was a big car, for starters. It was less of a car and more of a boat with wheels. The interior was spotless at first glance, clearly carefully maintained to perfection. But here and there, in tiny nooks that weren't easily noticed, he saw signs of wear. The backseat wasn't as worn as the front.

"Take a right two streets up on 'Belmont," Shawn said, hardly paying attention as they drove.

A box of old music tapes sat in the back of the car, bearing names of some rock bands Shawn had heard of before. Up towards the front, between the two seats, he spied a tiny familiar piece of orange food wrapper.

"So, have you guys been in town long?" Shawn asked.

"No, we just got in a few days ago. We, uh, weren't far away when we saw the case and noticed some things of interest." Patrick said.

A smooth enough answer. Except it rang hollow. Shawn forced a smile. "You sure got here fast. The FBI must really be bored for work these days. That reminds me- I think I have a personal case the FBI can help with. It involves my fifth-grade science project, which I believe was stolen by a drug cartel."

Patrick scoffed quietly. "Why would a cartel steal your school project?"

"Because it was awesome, that's why. And I'd like to hold them responsible for my failing grade."

Shawn kept thinking of the food wrapper. He knew what it was from, and it reminded him of something very pressing.

He leaned forward between the seats. "Actually, turn left up here."

The car turned. "What next?" Utah asked.

"Take a right… Here. Right here!"

The tires screeched, sending Shawn sliding across the seat as they pulled into a parking lot.

Utah squinted. "Casa de Pollo?!" Bright yellow signs greeted them. A cartoon chicken happily pointed them towards the drive-thru. "Hang on- I thought you were taking us to the police station?"

"We are, but I suddenly had the craving."

"No. No way!"

Shawn frowned. "I'm sensing… you went to a place similar to this, not long ago? 'Tacos R Us' is coming to mind. Does that mean anything?"

Patrick shared a shocked glance with Utah. Shawn smirked, basking in the feeling of 'nailing it'.

"Yeah… Yeah, we did," Patrick admitted, impressed.

It wasn't hard to figure out, after all. That was the only taco shop using orange wrappers close to the police station and the nearby motel.

"Yeah, and it was crap," Utah said, glaring at the building.

Shawn considered. "Oh, wait…" He shook his head, sympathetic, frowning. "Oh, no. I'm sensing you ate there on a Thursday. And your tummy… It was very displeased."

Utah spun to give him a sharp look over his shoulder. "How the hell did you know that…?"

Everyone in Santa Barbara knew that Charlie worked the kitchen at Tacos R Us on Thursdays. And everyone in Santa Barbara knew to avoid Tacos R Us on Thursdays.

Shawn felt sorry for the man; it was truly a traumatic experience. "You have my sympathies… But I can promise you will not have such trouble on this day, my suit-clad friends. This place has much better vibes. And flavors." He looked toward the drive-thru. "Now, if you could get me a number four-"

Utah started to wheel them back onto the street, almost breaking into a cold sweat, as if he feared the food would burst out of the restaurant and chase him. "No! No way I'm going there. No tacos! No Mexican!"

"Not even a taquito? Or… a taco salad?" Shawn asked hopefully.

The tires screeched as they roughly pulled in front of a minivan. Then they sped down the road, engine rumbling.

Agent Patrick seemed to hover somewhere between concerned, impressed, frustrated, and bewildered. He looked at Shawn in confusion.

Shawn watched the palace of Mexican-chicken-y goodness drift away behind them. "Aw, man!" Just as he went to turn back around, he spotted something behind the bench seat- the tiniest bit of rust-red left behind under the seat piping. Just in that one spot. As if missed during cleaning. He knew a bloodstain when he saw it.

That was unusual.

The car drove over a small bump. The contents of the trunk clattered. It was a dozen or so different sounds, but among them was a metallic, heavy twang; a rattle of somethings in a small box. Both were familiar; familiar enough that Shawn had to have heard them sometime in the past. The car's trunk also seemed particularly large. Large enough to cart around a lot of little things. Or large enough to carry one big thing. Like a body.

Shawn flipped through his memories for the sounds. Both were heard in his dad's car. The sounds of shovels in a trunk. The faint shifting of bullets rolling in a box.

All of these realizations coalesced into a single, pressing thought, as he slowly turned forward. He managed to call out another direction. He forced a smile. "So! Patrick and Utah… Remind me, where did you guys say you were based out of, again? My memory is just… phew!" He mimed something flying out of his head with a laugh.

"Washington D.C.," Patrick said.

"Yeah," Utah chimed in "Headquarters."

Shawn was suddenly very much aware that he was trapped in the car. He was also very, very concerned.

"Really? Who would've guessed," Shawn chuckled. "Do you work with the NOC list? Is that you guys? Do you drop down on cables-"

"I… Think that's the CIA," Patrick frowned. He shared a strange glance with Utah.

"Is it? Hah, well, you guys all seem the same to me," Shawn said overly casually, counting down the seconds until they arrived at the station. It seemed to take forever. He was starting to sweat and tugged at his shirt collar. "You know what?" he abruptly said, "I think we're close enough to the station, now. Just… pull over here."

Utah pulled next to the sidewalk with a suspicious glance.

With a carefully forced smile, Shawn opened the car door.

Except, he didn't.

His smile wavered. He tried again. It, still, refused to open.

He yanked again at the handle. Nothing. Then again, and again, frantically clawing, his smile gone, as panic started to overtake him. He pulled again-

"Hey! Watch it!" Utah barked. He reached behind his seat, to the rear door, and pulled up a small metal spindle just below the window. Something in the door clicked.

"You… locked it, earlier," Patrick said awkwardly.

Shawn tried the door. It opened.

He gave a sheepish smile. "Oh. Would you look at that! Hah!" Shawn chuckled awkwardly. He'd forgotten what old cars were like. Probably blocked out the memories of his dad's old car. "I knew that. I knew that!"

Shawn had barely gotten out of the car and started voicing his thanks when they peeled away, his words all but stolen by the powerful engine.

They sped on through Santa Barbara. "Idiot nearly scuffed the handle!" Dean grunted with a shake of his head. It was fortunate that it was only nearly scuffed, because if it had actually been scuffed, Dean would not have been responsible for his actions. Such was the fate of anyone who messed with his car. (All of the people or beings who did harm his car, but weren't punished for it, didn't count.)

Sam sat quietly for a moment. "I think he knows."

"What?"

"I think he figured out we're not FBI."

"Him? He couldn't even figure out the door!"

"He was asking questions… I think he knows. Or suspects, at least." Sam huffed a laugh. "And he knew about your food poisoning. He's spot on about a lot of things."

Dean grumbled, glancing about warily. He turned immediately in the opposite direction of the police station. His brother was right, and he hated to admit it. There were too many details for it to dumb luck. This was a problem because there were many, many things about them that needed to stay secret. "I don't like this. I say we cut and run, handle the rest of the case ourselves. I don't wanna stick around. At this rate the whole station'll figure out who we are. Last thing we need is another manhunt."

Sam nodded, agreeing readily. He'd destroy their burner phone, just in case. But as they drove, he couldn't help but glance behind them and think of the strange 'psychic'. Questions burned, tinged with confusion.

As far as car rides went, Shawn had given it a four out of ten. Disappointing, and with room for improvement. He could've done without the fearing for his life part. And above everything else, he was still hungry.

The very second the car was out of sight Shawn broke into a run. Then, he remembered why he didn't usually do that. He was sweaty in the California heat and it was annoying to breathe. Instead, he speed-walked at a mild jog. His heart raced almost as fast as his thoughts. New realizations clashed with an onslaught of newer questions. He had to tell Gus. And to get tacos. But first, Gus.

He found Gus further down the block. His partner stood on the sidewalk, resolute, eating from a small bag of roasted peanuts.

"Dude! I almost got murdered!"

Gus pointedly refused to acknowledge his presence. Shawn knew from experience exactly what an upset Gus would do, how he would do it, and what Shawn needed to say in return. So far, everything was textbook for 'Shawn went too far'.

He felt himself having to eat a slice of metaphorical humble pie. That reminded him- pie sounded good. Maybe they could get some later.

Then, he remembered they wouldn't be getting anything until Shawn made things right. He smiled, even as he felt more awkward than anything. "Hey, buddy!"

Gus ignored him.

"I'm sorry, okay?" Shawn shrugged. He spoke dutifully, if earnestly. "I… shouldn't have scared you like that. I know how spooked you get about magic and things."

Gus continued staring straight past Shawn, eating, and pretending not to listen.

"I promise, I won't pretend to cast magic on you ever again. Okay, buddy?" He clapped a hand on his friend's shoulder.

Gus discreetly glanced at Shawn.

That was his cue. He wasn't completely out of the woods yet- probably within distance of a big bad wolf, perhaps- but he was close enough to the freedom.

"We've got another problem on our hands. Dude- I almost got murdered back there."

Gus raised a concerned brow. Not because it was surprising in general- they'd almost been killed numerous times on cases- but because he didn't expect it within the last fifteen minutes. "By muggers?"

"No! Not muggers. Those two agents. Or, shall I say- 'So-called-FBI agents'," he said with finger quotes.

Gus regarded him with a frown. "Those guys? They tried to kill you? How?"

"That's… Not important."

Gus found that notion to be incompatible with attempted murder. He paused in his eating. "How is it not?!"

"Would you just- listen? They're fake FBI, okay? Faker than Sandra Bullock's story in 'While You Were Sleeping'." He paused. "Also, they might be murderers."

"I thought you said they tried to kill you?"

"An attempt wasn't made, per se, but they could've. They had me in their suit-clad clutches. Look- They had shovels, and guns, and ammo, and a ton of other stuff bumping around in their trunk. And they're certainly not FBI. I remember seeing their car in town Thursday on the day the body was discovered. It was before anything had hit the papers. Why'd they be in town that fast? Especially driving."

Gus frowned. "But if they're murderers, why would they pretend to be FBI on a case? Unless they were involved in the murder, trying to throw us off the scent somehow."

Shawn found himself thinking the same thing. "And yet, neither of them had a limp, like one of the perps would have, they seemed surprised to find the ninja at the house, and didn't know about a cult until we told them about it." he thought aloud.

"The cult about the occult."

"Exactly."

"I don't know," Gus frowned, pausing to eat another handful of peanuts. "They don't seem like crazy killers to me."

"Or, they're accomplices somehow in the case. Maybe they didn't actually kill Stampler. Maybe they… Maybe they just helped with cleanup."

"Trying to throw us off the trail!"

"Maybe," Shawn said doubtfully. He shook his head. "I don't know, Gus. I mean- Could they really be bad guys? They quoted Leslie Nielson."

Gus considered. "That's true."

"And I saw them help some kid in front of the station." He paused. "Oh, and they're brothers."

"What makes you say that?"

Shawn reached for the bag of peanuts. Gus slapped his hand away.

"Just a hunch," Shawn winced.

"We should probably tell Juliet," Gus said, in the way one said something that was expected of them, yet without any conviction behind it.

"Maybe. Or… We can figure it out for ourselves." Shawn paused. "After we go to Casa de Pollo."

"I hear that."

The trouble with cults was that they, by nature, wanted to stay hidden.

Dean thought it wouldn't be hard to find a cult in beachy California. They had all types there- surfers, movie stars, vegans, gamblers, gold diggers, and NFL stars turned murderers. Hell, he half expected a cult every few blocks. Probably driven by the latest hippy-diet craze with some meditation garden. Stepford wives situations.

Unfortunately- and surprisingly- California was not as strange as he thought.

Dean sat back in his chair in their cheesy motel room and blinked, rapidly, trying to regain his eyesight.

Sam had been searching for hours online while Dean had looked through enough local newspapers and magazines to make his eyes bleed. He'd found nothing.

He'd rather run through a blizzard naked than look at another article. Standing and pacing around the room, he pulled out his phone and called up an old family friend. Bobby. Bobby, a friend of their dad's, was across the country in his half-house, half-classic car junkyard, but he was as good a resource as any for hunters. He just knew stuff.

Confident in Bobby's experience, Dean rang the older man up.

Ten minutes later, he hung up the phone.

"Bobby's got nothing," Dean grumbled.

Sam looked up from his laptop. "Nothing at all?"

"He mentioned something about a cult upstate, 'bout seventy miles away. Nothing closer."

Sam sighed, then groaned.

Dean plopped on his bed, sat against the headboard, and stretched his legs. Out of habit he checked the side of the bed for 'Magic Fingers'. At this he, too, was disappointed.

Cults could be anything. But what really caught their attention was how 'cult' could be a cover for something even worse: a coven of witches, demonic worshipers who summoned something they couldn't control. Maybe an urn of remains with a spirit hanging around. But also, witches. "Man, I really hope it's not witches. I hate witches."

"Too many bodily fluids?"

"Exactly."

"Well, if that psychic guy is right about anything, at least there hasn't been signs of witch activity. Yet."

"What about you? Find anything?"

"Maybe… I couldn't find any cults or secret societies in the area- at least, nothing public. Well- except for some group called the 'Monarch Lodge'. Seems like a bunch of old guys. Their website hasn't been updated in ten years, looks like. They have a lodge here in Santa Barbara."

"Yeah, sounds about right," Dean muttered.

He found Sam staring at him, scoffing in confusion.

Dean shrugged as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "You know? This is California. It's got all kinds of freaks. Anyone who says there's no cult around is lying. They practically sprout up like daisies around here."

Sam raised a brow, leaning back in his chair with a shake of his head. "Wow."

"That group sounds familiar," Dean said. "Where've I heard that?"

"They have lodges all around the country, Dean. They're like... a secret country club, I guess. They donate to charities and play golf, I think."

"How is that not a cult?"

Sam shrugged. "They seem pretty harmless. I'm pretty sure Dad or Bobby would've mentioned something if they were something else. There doesn't seem to be any connection."

Dean didn't completely believe those weird psychic guys. But they'd been given a challenge, and Dean Winchester didn't lose. Whatever they tried so far, it wasn't working. The police didn't seem to know about the cult, either. It was more subtle than that.

"Okay, so we try something else," Dean said. "Maybe we're going about this wrong. You found all that other stuff earlier, right?"

Sam shrugged.

"So, do more of that stuff. Let's look at it like hunters, find whatever's weird."

"The things cops don't normally look at," Sam said thoughtfully.

"Where there's smoke, there's fire."

Sam went back to work.

An hour later, Sam found an interesting news article from just a few months ago. A humble middle-aged man in Santa Barbara went to the local news claiming he was a jinx. And, as usual, no one paid him any mind, except for a single fringe blog site that touted the latest conspiracy theories.

They decided to pay the man a visit and ask some questions. But by then, it was already evening, and they desperately needed food. The brothers went to the fairly clean-looking diner not too far from their motel and in the opposite direction of the police station. Especially since they were dressed in their usual paid button-up shirts, jackets, flared jeans, and boots.

Sam ordered a large salad while Dean scarfed down a burger and fries. Sam set up his laptop off to the side, idly browsing something while he speared greens with a fork.

Dean looked up from his burger after a while, discreetly glancing at his brother. A hint of a smirk made its way to his lips. "So, I saw you chatting up that blonde police chick," he said knowingly.

Sam didn't look up but glared at the screen. "Really? You're going to talk about this now? In the middle of a case."

"Don't deny it. I saw you looking at her. She was cute, I guess."

Sam turned his glare to Dean.

"Besides, case won't last forever, right? We could always hang around after, really enjoy the beaches." He smiled, caught up in his own inner fantasy. "Really, really, enjoy the beaches."

Sam couldn't help but gape, slightly, at what he was hearing. He barely stopped himself from raising his voice- instead leaning forward, speaking low. "Except for the part where the police are onto us."

Dean gave an infuriating shrug. "So we go further out. Live a little, Sammy! You never had any trouble picking up chicks on cases before."

"What's wrong with you? It's- This isn't a good time." There was a case. But there was also the minor, pressing matter of Dean's death in a few months because of a demon contract.

Their server dropped off another glass of water for Sam, causing them both to grow quiet and offer smiles. "Thanks," Sam said.

After she left, his brother grew slightly quiet; some of his confidence waned, ever so slightly, as his gaze drifted away from Sam. "Is this a Jess thing? You having trouble moving on still?"

Sam paused, trying to find the words. "I don't exactly… Reel them in, you know. Not like you," he shook his head. "I only dated a couple of girls at Stanford before her."

Dean smirked. "Oh yeah?"

He snorted faintly. "Yeah. This… girl in my Philosophy class. And then a photography major."

"Photographer, huh? She help you out with photos?" Dean wagged his brow.

"Dude, get your mind out of the gutter." Sam hated how close he was, though. He'd modeled for her once or twice. But he'd rather die than let Dean find out about it.

As Dean went back to destroying his food in the way only he knew how, Sam pretended to look back at his laptop. But all he could think of was his brother's strange, recent obsession with trying to get him to go out and meet girls. He'd always encouraged Sam to do that, anyway- but it was never that bad.

It probably wasn't a good idea to try and date a detective with the SBPD when you were recently wanted for felony charges. Or caught impersonating a federal agent. Juliet probably wouldn't be a fan of that, Sam thought dryly.

Somehow, in the few minutes between leaving the diner and parking at the motel, peace had once again deserted the brothers. This was not unusual in itself, however; it was common enough amongst families far and wide. Most, however, didn't argue about psychics.

"He's a fake," Dean said as he dropped his wallet and keys on the dresser.

Sam scoffed, closing the door behind him. "And you're so sure?!"

"Yeah. I am."

"Then why are we going after this lead about the cult? Why look at all?"

Dean shrugged in the careless way that infuriated Sam. "'Cause it's better than nothing, alright?"

Sam shook his head. He dropped into a chair and pulled out his laptop. He'd bury himself in work for the next hour or two and try to get some distance (figuratively speaking, unfortunately) from his brother. At least before bed.

Dean conveniently busied himself with peeling off his boots, tossing them practically in the middle of the floor. No matter what was said about the 'psychic' consultant and his partner, Dean had shut down the idea each and every time, saying he wasn't a real psychic. But unbeknownst to Sam, it was because he'd reached the point where he didn't actually consider the issue at all anymore; he just didn't want to admit defeat by changing his mind or saying he was wrong. Never mind the fact that the psychic was completely right about the food poisoning. It freaked Dean out.

"And all those details about the victim and your food poisoning was just… dumb luck?" Sam asked sarcastically.

"I don't know. What about all that stuff he didn't know, huh? Doesn't seem like much of a psychic. He sure as hell couldn't read our thoughts, otherwise he'd bolt after five seconds with us," Dean said while lying back on his bed. He reached for the TV remote and started flicking channels.

There was a quiet pause. "Maybe he's just… not a very good psychic," Sam winced.

"Yeah, and you know what they call a bad psychic? A fake."

"Screw it," Sam said. He clicked away at the keyboard with determination.

Dean raised a brow. "What're you doing?"

"Googling them."

Sam stared at the screen, his eyes skimming the webpage. His face twisted in the sort of bewildered, unsure confusion he'd only recently learned in Santa Barbara. "'Did you mean 'Shawn SpenStar and Gus T.T. Showbiz?'" he read aloud. He blinked, trying to make sure he was reading it right. Then, "'The extra T is for Talent'?"

Dean glanced up from the TV. "Huh?"

"Looks like they were contestants on that 'American Duos' show you like so much," Sam said. "They made it to… Round two? Whatever that means."

"What?!" Dean flew to the desk, jutting his head over Sam's shoulder to peer at the screen. "You're telling me those two clowns made it to round two?!" He stared. "Those guys?!"

"Apparently," Sam scoffed. He smirked. "Don't tell me you like that reality trash."

Dean leaned back with an offended look. "It's not just a show, Sam, it's a damn American institution and a cultural export. Learn your heritage!"

Sam shook his head, almost rolling his eyes. "Uh, sure. Whatever."

"Now- pull up their audition. I gotta see this." He paused. "How the hell did they get past Nigel?"

"Nigel?"

"Nigel St. Nigel. The main judge- he eats guys like that for breakfast, really lets everyone have it. There hasn't been a single song on the entire show that he's liked."

Sam turned to look over his shoulder, brows raised, amused and at Dean's expense. "You're a big fan of the show, huh?"

"Shut up and play the clip!"

He found the video and pressed play. What followed was a painful ear-splitting three minutes as some form of a possible attempt was made to sing 'Take on Me' by A-ha, albeit with two different verses sung at once, and with very few identifiable musical notes.

Dean and Sam watched with cringed expressions; their faces unable to relax for the next hour.