Upon learning that two so-called 'FBI agents' were actually frauds, and could quite possibly be crazed murderers- complete with shovels and guns on hand- the first logical course of action would be to tell the police. A second, far more pressing option would be to run as far away as humanly possible.

Shawn Spencer and Burton Guster were not logical people.

In fact, their plan for Sunday was to go straight to the motel where the fake FBI brothers were probably staying. First, Shawn and Gus would watch from a distance- or, if they had the opportunity, sneak into their room and see what they could learn.

But first, Gus had church. Shawn had a nap.

By the time they met up, it was already lunch, and Tacos R Us was conveniently near the motel. (It wasn't a Thursday, after all.)

They sat in a booth next to a window; the table was covered in tacos, burritos, and all other taco-adjacent foods. It was a risk, eating so close to the upcoming Taco Tuesday at Casa de Pollo, but it was a risk that Shawn and Gus silently agreed they were willing to take.

"I can't believe it took you this long to figure out they were fakes," Gus said between bites of quesadilla.

Shawn bit into his taco with a shake of his head. It was stupid for him to miss the signs, at first- signs that in retrospect appeared glaringly obvious, especially to someone of his skills. In light of this revelation, naturally, he said: "Oh, please, Gus- of course I knew all along. With terrible names like those?" he chuckled.

Gus watched him knowingly from behind his quesadilla. "It's because of Juliet, isn't it?"

Shawn scoffed louder than was necessary. "What? No! That's crazy, Gus. Crazier than Tim Curry's accent in 'Congo'."

Gus smoothly shook his head, unimpressed. "You were jealous, weren't you? Of those guys? Don't tell me you didn't notice how they looked at her."

"So?" Shawn asked, still putting on a show of disbelief. He puffed out a blow of air. "Oh, like I'd be jealous of two walking models strutting into the station, talking to Jules, looking at Jules, smiling at Jules-"

"You should just tell her how you feel," Gus shrugged. It wasn't anything new; Shawn's simmering feelings for Juliet had become like an old, awkward friend who tagged along without an invitation, forgot to bring cash for its share of the pizza, and never RSVPd to anything. Gus had long grown used to its existence. He even supported it- as was his duty as best friend. But if procrastination and avoidance were sports, Shawn would be a gold medalist. It just got a little tiring after a while. Even for Gus.

Something deflated in Shawn. He stared at his food, letting out a sigh. Gus knew the sigh translated to 'Yes, I know, one of these days, I'll do it, for realsies.'

Gus' phone rang- It was Juliet.

Gus frowned, his quesadilla all but forgotten as he listened. He flashed a look at Shawn. "Mrs. Stampler's been arrested? For murder?"

Shawn frowned at his half-eaten tacos. "Aw, man…!"

A glimmer of hope shone throughout the Santa Barbara Police Station. Officers and workers had a spring in their step unlike anything in recent days, while smiles were easily found.

"There you are," Juliet glanced up from her desk as Shawn and Gus neared. "Shawn, I tried to call you."

"My phone is indisposed."

"Is that a way of saying you lost it?"

"Wrong. I know perfectly well where it is."

"He's just too scared to get it," Gus said.

"Am not."

"Are too."

"Guys!" Juliet warned.

They both straightened.

"Unhand me!" a shrill voice rang out. Behind them, Allison Stampler was dragged by Detective Lassiter with her hands in cuffs. "I'm suing you! I'm suing all of you!" she cried, glaring at anyone nearby.

"Save it for the lockup," Lassiter grunted. He pulled her down the hall towards the holding cells.

She yanked herself away, frantically turning around to spot Shawn and Gus. Her hair was tussled; her makeup smeared. "You! Psychic! You've got to help- they think I did it! They think I actually killed my husband!"

"Quiet down!" Lassiter barked. "McNab, help get her to holding."

McNab offered a nod and guided Allison out of sight. Her shrill voice echoed in the halls behind her, pleading to everyone and everything.

"Wait!" Shawn shouted, looking desperately to Juliet. "She didn't do it- I've gotten a lot of vibrations that someone- or something- else is involved."

Juliet shrugged. "The tox screen came in. The cause of death for Chris Stampler was a drug called Pentobarbital."

"Pentobarbital? That's a sedative!" Gus said. "But… It's also used for euthanasia. In very high doses, anyway."

Juliet nodded. "It was a massive overdose. We think it was given to him in a liquid based on the autopsy findings. Upon searching the Stampler house, we found remains of the drug in the kitchen where it was likely ground up into a powder out of capsules. We also found a bottle in Alison Stampler's purse."

"No… No, that can't be right," Shawn shook his head. His mind frantically went through everything they saw in the house yesterday.

"What about the people seen at the docks? And the boat that pulled away?" Gus asked.

"We located the boat at a storage facility a few blocks from the Stampler house. Mrs. Stampler had a key to a certain unit, in her name. We found the boat there this morning." Juliet said.

"What?" Shawn asked, sharing a look with Gus. "I can't believe that- The spirits, they were very clear, the house didn't have that kind of clues."

Juliet sighed- entirely too unsympathetically- and pulled out a file with pictures of the home, including anything noted as possible evidence. Shawn flipped through them as his brain raced. He matched the photos to the images kept in his head, pictures clear, of what he'd seen- they were nearly the same, but there were differences. Differences in how open some drawers were. Certain items on desks were now slightly askew. Some furniture was not quite straight, whereas everything was neat and orderly when they last visited. And, above all, he didn't remember seeing any kind of unusual drugs anywhere.

Shawn winced. He shared a puzzled look with Gus. It wasn't the first time they'd run into problems by doing their own 'unofficial' sleuthing at crime scenes. But they couldn't give themselves away- not yet. They just didn't have enough evidence of their own.

He raised a hand to his temple. "That's- The spirits say something different. Something is wrong. There's more to his murder. Something… otherworldly and sinister."

Juliet angled her head to give an unamused look.

"So, that's it? What now?" Gus asked.

"I'm sorry- The case is closed," Juliet said, taking the files back. "We have a clear motive with their unhappy marriage and pending divorce. We talked to his coworkers at the Santa Barbara Mirror and didn't find any leads there. No one seemed particularly close to him. That leaves the wife- Everything checks."

Shawn was flipping through the mental images of the house again- including the creepy, scary study, and the empty space on the desk. "Did you find a laptop anywhere? At his work? With his wife?"

She shook her head, frowning. "No, nothing."

Gus and Shawn exchanged a look.

Juliet stopped. "Oh, that reminds me- Did you guys catch the full names of those FBI agents who came by? Agent Utah and Agent Patrick?"

They exchanged another look; this time considerably more wary and suspicious. "No…" Shawn said, "Why?"

"Do you know of any way to reach them? I'm having trouble finding them in the database. The number they gave me doesn't seem to work anymore," she frowned at her computer.

Another look was exchanged. It was somewhat discreet, but most certainly conspicuous. Fortunately, Juliet didn't see it.

"How about that," Gus said casually.

"Weird," Shawn said flippantly.

They exchanged a third look with each other. It said many things without words. First, they asked each other, 'Should we tell her?' And then they realized they didn't know what to say. But then they asked, 'Who are those guys?' and then finally, 'What are we eating after this?'. It took three seconds.

Shaking themselves from their sidebar, they remembered an innocent woman was probably in jail, and that a cult was going to get away with it.

They turned around, stepping away so they couldn't be overheard. "Dude, what is going on?" Shawn whispered.

"This is crazy. How could that evidence be in that house? Did we miss something?" Gus asked.

Shawn shook his head. "No, you know me. I never miss things. That evidence wasn't there yesterday. Also, someone searched the place sometime after we left and before the police got there."

Gus cast a suspicious glance over his shoulder at the rest of the police station. He scooted closer to Shawn, whispering. "It must've been that intruder. He must've come back to the house after we left!"

Shawn nodded. "Exactly. And by 'intruder' I think you mean 'ninja'."

"No, I don't. That wasn't a ninja, Shawn."

"Anyway, I don't think it was those fake agents. We saw them the entire time."

"Right. And they seemed just as surprised at everything as we were." Gus shook his head, his gaze growing distant. "None of this makes sense, Shawn. I don't like this. So what if a drug was involved? There's still a creepy cult and curses!"

"Shh," Shawn said, lowering his voice. "Don't worry about it, alright? We got this!" he said, hoping to believe it himself. He sounded convincing enough. He was good at that.

Gus stared with a skeptical gaze, but the edge was gone.

"We've got to figure out these missing pieces," Shawn shook his head. "Man… If only Big Louie wasn't such a stickler and would just tell us where that cult was."

Gus scoffed. "Good luck. That man isn't taking any chances. I don't blame him."

Shawn thought about the Stampler house again. Each room was checked in the mental pictures of his mind; Everything looked overwhelmingly normal. The kitchen, the hallway, the garage-

Shawn looked sharply at Gus. He grinned.

Then, he strode over to Juliet's desk, driven, yet trying to downplay it. He asked a short and simple question.

Juliet checked something on her computer and gave him an answer.

The men smiled, thanked her, and left.

Police Chief Vick regarded her two detectives with a nod. Juliet and Carlton stood on the other side of the desk.

"Detectives," she said expectantly, "I hear you finally have good news."

Detectives Lassiter and O'Hara stood before her, much like children might before a teacher when they were caught not handing in their homework. It was a feeling completely alien to both detectives. But there was a faint, hopeful prospect to it, something that had sorely been lacking around the station in recent weeks. Juliet would seize it like a lifeline.

"Yes, we received the toxicology report on the Stampler case. The victim's wife has been arrested and is in custody," Juliet said.

"I told you she was the one behind it," Lassiter said smugly.

Juliet shot him a look.

"What?" he asked. "Oh, please, don't give me that. It was obvious the moment we learned she wanted a divorce."

Juliet could have said a lot of things in response to that statement; all of them some variation about his own divorce and his extremely biased- and worrisome- views on the subject. But she kept her mouth firmly shut, striving fiercely for professionalism. Also, strangling her partner in front of the chief would probably reflect on them poorly.

"Tox screen was positive for Pentobarbital. Evidence found in the wife's possessions and home came back a match. We're just waiting to confirm details regarding accomplices in disposing of the body, and possibly the boat that was seen at the docks. But we're hoping she'll confess first."

"Oh, I'll get that confession out of her," Lassiter muttered.

Juliet kept herself from rolling her eyes. She handed a file over to the chief, who scanned it with a practiced eye.

The chief nodded. "Good work. It's about time we got some good news around here," the chief said. "Especially since the FBI are involved in this. They've already worn out their welcome by skipping protocol and not notifying me first of their involvement."

"Probably trying to snake their way up the chain. Get credit for our work," Lassiter sneered.

"It's not unheard of," Vick admitted. "You know how petty these rivalries can get when it comes to jurisdiction." She looked up again, her approval all too fleeting, as her gaze hardened. "Now, if you could achieve the same results on any of your other pending cases, I'd appreciate it. I heard there was another misstep?"

Juliet steeled herself. "Well… We did have another incident with a black market exchange. We planned to make a sting, but… no one showed up."

"Again?" Vick asked, her eyebrows raising. "For how long will these failures continue, detectives?"

"We know, chief," Juliet started, "We've been doing everything we can."

"We-" Lassiter stopped. "We're using all resources at our disposal," he said in a clipped tone.

"We already hired Psych's services for the Stampler case. Do we need to hire them for all your other cases, too?" Vick asked dryly, although her face was sober.

Carlton bristled at the thought. "Absolutely not. We can handle this- Right, O'Hara?" Juliet nodded.

"Alright," Vick said. "So, step it up- it's not like you both to be so off your game."

Lassiter abruptly opened his mouth, indignant, but said nothing. Then, as if remembering something, he looked suspiciously around the room. "Yes, Chief," he managed, as if reciting a line.

Juliet frowned, watching him. It wasn't like her partner to bite his tongue. It also wasn't like him to let it go when his skills were questioned in any way. Maybe he was ill? Or perhaps the latest case had caused the inevitable- that the work started with his messy divorce, mixed with one failed case too many, had finally caused him to snap. Everyone figured it would happen eventually.

But Juliet liked to think her partner was stronger than that. So what if he had a complete disregard for polite social cues the majority of the time? And fired his gun more in a year than most officers in their entire lives? And took his divorce to mean that all love and romance was dead, and that the world was out to get him?

No, something was going on with him. Something more than usual, anyway.

Juliet managed to tear her gaze away and regard the chief. "We're doing our best."

"Then I need you to do better. I know what you're capable of," Vick said, letting out a faint breath, her tone softening. "You just need to get back to it."

The detectives nodded.

"Dismissed."

As they left the chief's office, Juliet saw something concerning. Carlton Lassiter was silent, was not defending his abilities as a detective, and continued to scan the station around them with a determined gaze. "Carlton?" she asked.

He started to speak but clearly hesitated. Then, deciding something, he said, "Everything's fine, O'Hara," in an unusually stiff and loud voice. He jerked his head towards the left.

Frowning, she followed him through the halls, taking multiple turns so they went in at least two circles, and ended up through a side exit to a parking garage. She was more curious than worried. Although part of her was always worried when it came to her partner. Carlton always had that effect on people.

He led her down at least two back alleys until they reached a small, deserted parking lot that wasn't visible from any busy roads. Carlton turned and looked her up and down. "I'll need to frisk you. It's nothing personal-"

"Carlton!" She said exasperatedly. "What on Earth is going on?!"

"What?" He asked innocently. "I just need to check you for bugs."

"You mean like listening bugs? Why would I be bugged?!"

"I-" He stopped. He glanced around them suspiciously and cleared his throat. "Okay. Fine. I have reason to believe there is a rat in the station," he said quietly.

It took her a moment to understand and to make sure she hadn't misheard. She frowned. "As in, someone's listening in and leaking information?"

He nodded.

It was outlandish, but the pieces started to come together. It would explain their recent failures. "If someone knows what we're investigating, and where we plan to be-"

"They could remove evidence, cover up activities, and sabotage our investigations. We're not the fools, O'Hara."

"Which would explain why we've been two steps behind every step of our investigations!" she gushed quietly. "But how do you know this?"

"It could be anyone in the station," Lassiter said, her question suspiciously unheard. He had the look in his eyes of a man out of blood; perhaps figuratively, in that someone was going to be put behind bars. Or made to cry. "Maybe that new water delivery man. They could be planting bugs, too. Maybe the coffee machine. I never trusted that Devon guy. His mustache always seemed fishy."

"Why didn't you tell the chief? Surely, you don't think she's the one-"

"No. No!" Carlton rebuffed, slightly offended. Then, he calmed. "I know it's not her. Mostly. Ninety-five percent sure."

Jules' face crumpled in bewildered confusion. "The chief isn't the rat!"

"Regardless, we can't have whoever it is find out that we're onto them. Talking about it in the station isn't safe. We need to catch the son-of-a-bitch unawares."

"Okay, so we need to smoke out a rat, apparently," she said thoughtfully. She squinted. "How did you find out about this?"

He shifted uncomfortably, his gaze drifting to a random dumpster. Something was mumbled.

"Come again?"

Carlton cleared his throat, every syllable painful to stay: "Spencer."

Juliet's brows rose. "Shawn? He told you?"

He shrugged, somehow stiff and yet nonchalant. "In a matter of speaking."

"Why didn't he say anything to me? Or to the chief?"

"Yes, well, maybe he didn't want the rat to find out he was onto them. Who knows why Spencer does anything?"

She frowned. "Is it a rat? Or mole?" She idly drew a finger through the air in front of her. "A mole burrows in the ground, so wouldn't it be a mole since it's someone who infiltrated the station?"

He blinked. "What's the difference?"

"Well, a rat would be more like someone who's a dirty cop, I thought. Someone corrupt, maybe working for someone else on the side."

Carlton stared with a blank look. "What's the difference? They're both dirty, pathetic, low-lifes who are an embarrassment to the uniform and deserve a fate worse than death," he said casually.

Juliet started to think further about the difference between the two figurative animals, but shook her head. "Okay. So we need to find a traitor or informant within the department. If there is one."

"Exactly," he said, slipping back into his orders voice. "I need you to discreetly keep an eye out for anyone, anyone, acting suspicious, or signs that conversations are leaked."

She nodded. "If there's a mole," she said patiently yet firmly. If it was true, it would solve a lot of their immediate problems. But not everything. And there was no telling how long that would take. She needed to make sure her partner didn't completely snap before that happened. "In the meantime," she said pointedly, "You need to calm down. You're on edge, it's affecting other people- and it might tip anyone off that we're onto them. Besides, you're even making Buzz nervous."

He spun aside, pulling his gun, aiming it at the dumpster. "Freeze! You move one inch and you'll regret it!" he growled.

When nothing and no one responded, he stepped looked closer. "Oh, never mind. It's just a plastic bag." He smiled, holstered his gun, and turned to Juliet, frowning. "What makes you think I'm on edge?"

Juliet barely withheld a sigh.

The brothers got an early start that Sunday morning. This time, instead of black suits, as was expected of government officials, they wore slightly more casual jackets and slacks in neutral shades. Both selected different fake insurance representative IDs. It was a lowkey enough cover, but with just enough authority to let them into someone's home and ask questions.

Sam planned to burn his 'Agent Patrick' ID the first chance he got.

They arrived at a modest house in the outer suburbs of Santa Barbara. It's otherwise nice, white painted wood was peeling in several places; a shutter was missing from one window, another shutter hung at a crooked angle, bouncing against the house in the faint breeze. The yard was yellow-brown with large patches of even darker brown. A generous tree hung overhead, save for the fact that it had been split in half and partially scorched. In the planters, trios of leaves sprouted that looked suspiciously like poison ivy.

A gray-haired woman answered the door with an uncertain smile. "Yes?"

Dean cleared his throat, acting the professional. "Ma'am, we're here about your insurance claims, we just have a few questions to ask."

"It won't take long," Sam added with a reassuring smile.

The woman sighed, shook her head, and let them inside. "Oscar! More adjusters!"

Oscar Tulio was, for all intents and purposes, a harmless older man. He had white hair that was neatly combed, wore a pinstripe shirt, and offered a kind smile as the brothers entered. He was also in a wheelchair, as his left leg was completely covered in a cast. "More questions, eh?" he asked.

"Looks like you took a nasty fall, there," Dean said.

"This is just the latest one!" Oscar huffed, laughing, as if it were the only option left.

Sometimes the people Sam and Dean questioned were wary, suspicious- if annoyed at having to answer questions. But Oscar didn't hold back. He and his wife eagerly started to talk. A dam was broken, and the pent-up experiences were unleashed in detail. No one else had taken the time to really listen. No one that actually believed them, anyway.

Oscar had been very, very, unfortunate. He was a simple delivery driver for the local FedEx distribution center. His simple, if happy life, involved delivering packages and playing bridge on weekends. But somehow, in the span of a few months, he'd broken a toe, accidentally been chased by dogs who broke free of their backyard, gotten food poisoning (three different times, three different variants), slipped on a patch of ice (despite it being southern California, where no ice was generally found on the ground), hit by a car, hit by a bike, and finally slipped off a ladder to break his leg. That didn't include the tree in the yard getting hit by lightning.

Every day, there seemed to be smaller frustrations, too. Things like catching nearly every red light. His TV going out at random times. Paint getting knocked over and spilling in the living room. His roof springing leaks, easily, despite constantly getting it fixed. His neighbor also took up drum playing.

It all just started up one day in October. But no one believed him- how could someone's luck really turn bad? The boring, rational world simply couldn't believe it.

Oscar was not a happy man. Although he had a more chipper attitude than Sam would've expected for someone in his shoes.

The thought caused Sam to freeze.

Just last year, Sam had his own unfortunate experience with a 'Lucky Rabbit's Foot'. Said Foot was actually cursed- giving its owner an amazing streak of good luck- only to turn sour, then dangerous, then deadly, once they lost possession of it. Sam had experienced both the highs and lows of the Cursed Rabbit's Foot. More notably, he managed to go several hours with the very universe itself working to make him the unluckiest person alive. He'd nearly died from it. And he'd lost his shoe.

He liked those shoes.

Sam shook himself of the memories.

He looked up to see Dean shooting him a concerned look.

"Would you mind if we took a look around?" Sam asked. The couple nodded, eager to accommodate anyone who believed them.

They walked over to the kitchen."Sounds a lot like a cursed rabbit's foot," Dean muttered.

Gum getting stuck on the bottom of his shoe. Him trying to scrape it off a nearby grate, unsuccessfully; his shoe pulling off his foot by mistake, falling down into the suspiciously large hole in the grate. The air conditioning unit of their motel room spontaneously catching fire-

Sam mentally shook himself of the memories, a little sweatier than before. "Uh. Yeah." He frowned. He folded up his pad of notes and tucked it away, speaking just as quietly. "Yeah, but it can't be. If it was, he'd be dead by now, wouldn't he? Once the luck turns bad, it only takes hours to turn deadly. But this guy's been living through this for… Months."

Dean skimmed the kitchen- noting the lightbulbs that were out, the appliances that seemed broken. The wallpaper peeled up from water damage around the sink. "Yeah? Well, sure as hell sounds like it though. Maybe there's… I dunno, different levels?"

"Different levels? Of bad luck?"

"Yeah? Why not? Some curses are worse than others. Not everything's flat-out deadly."

Sam frowned, still disliking the topic in general in a reflexive way. "Yeah. Maybe. He doesn't remember any kind of unusual or strange items coming his way, though. The guy hadn't changed his routines in ten years, it sounds like."

"It better not be witches," Dean grumbled.

"Yeah… I know."

"What about Cousin Oliver?"

Sam frowned in confusion. "From the Brady Bunch? The kid who thought he was a jinx?"

"Yeah. Maybe that's what's going on? A real-life jinx."

"Maybe. We'd have to do some research."

The brothers fanned out. They thoroughly searched the house, paying special attention for small bags or items hidden behind appliances, under sinks, or anywhere else. Hex bags or HooDoo could cause someone to be 'cursed', for all intents and purposes. But there had to be physical bags there for it to work. Usually.

They found nothing. No EMF readings; no signs of ghosts, or anything that might be connected to an angry spirit. And the victim was still alive?

The brothers thanked the couple for their time with polite smiles. But just as they moved toward the door, Oscar spoke up and said, "It wasn't just me, you know."

Sam and Dean exchanged a look. "Pardon?" Dean asked.

"It just started one day," said a lanky high-schooler at the FedEx packaging facility. He wore extensive headgear around his head, and a brace around his neck. A patch of his hair was shaved in a random spot above his ear. "It's like all this stuff just started happening to me. Bad stuff!"

A young woman looked up from a pallet of boxes. She nodded solemnly. "I've had three teeth pulled, developed an allergy to milk, my car hit a van full of orphans, and-" she stopped, her lip trembling, "And they killed my favorite Lost character!"

Sam winced. "I'm not sure that's-"

"Who was it?" Dean asked.

The woman barely withheld a sob. "D-Danielle Rousseau."

Dean raised a brow and forced a smile. "Right," he drawled. "Don't know what they'll do without her."

The woman shook her head, giving the unique look that can only be described as 'hatred for J.J. Abrams'; a look that would go in and out of fashion during the next fifteen years.

"So… These things started happening to you both around the same time?" Sam asked.

They nodded. "In October," the boy said. "I-I had to get my yearbook picture like this. My sister tried to shave my hair!"

Dean winced. "Yikes…"

"And it started on the exact same day?" Sam asked.

"Just like Oscar," she nodded. "October seventh."

Sam jotted down his notes. "Got it, thank you." He smiled politely.

Dean and Sam split up and searched the facility. To their surprise, it was completely unremarkable. There were no signs of cursed items or witchcraft; no strange bags of mystically-themed items, no Latin words carved into the building. A sign on the warehouse floor read 'Zero Days Without Accident'.

They did, however, find a plate of small mints at the front desk. Dean helped himself while grinning at the receptionist.

Sam turned to the receptionist. "Do you think we could get a copy of Oscar Tulio's route for October seventh?"

She shrugged, getting a printout for them.

With effort, Sam managed to get Dean's attention. He spoke too quietly for the receptionist to hear. "I think he must've delivered something that's causing these freak accidents- unless all the others were involved in some run-in with a witch or something. "

Dean chuckled. "Yeah, maybe they delivered a package too late. Pissed off a voodoo priestess."

"But just those three?" Sam asked. "No one else here seems affected."

"So, what, that leaves something they delivered, maybe came in contact with," Dean said.

"And Oscar was the one to deliver it. He probably had more exposure to… Whatever it was." Sam winced unconsciously; the thought of a rabbit's foot- even a 'less cursed' version- was enough to make him want to hide out in the hotel room. But then he recoiled from that thought, as the window air units could catch fire, and-

"Sounds like we gonna follow the breadcrumbs," Dean said.

Sam swallowed. "Yeah."

After stopping for lunch and changing back into their usual jeans, plaid shirts, and boots, they set out with the address list in hand. They started at the beginning and worked their way up. An EMF reader wouldn't have been any good several yards away from a building, so they would have to rely on observation. And instinct.

"There's gotta be dozens of places on this list," Sam shook his head. "Any one of them could have something unnatural about it that might've affected this guy. Maybe someone ordered a cursed rabbit's foot online without knowing what it really was. Who knows."

"A possessed item might do that. You know, angry spirit still sticking around, clings to some painting or whatever."

Sam snorted. "You mean like that haunted painting we found in upstate New York?"

"Yeah. With that hot chick who ran the auction house, the one you were into."

Sam had some admittedly fond memories of her- and their time together. But there was also the haunted painting and the spirit who tried to inhabit it, sending a message, trying to warn of the death that followed the painting's owners. The painting hadn't been easy to deal with- cutting it out, salting, and burning it hadn't worked like usual. But that was a special case around the spirit's death.

"Uh. Yeah. Her," Sam shook his head.

"Or maybe it was just another rabbit's foot," Dean said with a grin.

Sam scoffed and looked out the window.

It was a grueling afternoon. They drove from one building to the next, from one ordinary-looking home to the next, of which nothing seemed to house anything unnatural. Sam knew it was only a matter of time before Dean started to complain. He couldn't blame him, honestly.

Out in the northeastern part of town, not terribly far from the area they'd come to know in recent days, they found a building. It wasn't a house, and it wasn't a business. It was a simple large box of a brick building, painted gray. It also happened to be surrounded by high metal fencing topped with spikes. It was decorative, in the gothic sense, but also looked like it would've really hurt anyone trying to avoid the gated entrance and guardhouse. Instead of a simple driveway, there was a small parking lot within its walls. Big, spiked gates barred entrance. Someone's silhouette could be seen through the small guardhouse window.

"Hello," Dean muttered. They'd pulled up far down the road, across the street, and behind a parked van. It was a quiet residential neighborhood, otherwise.

"That's… definitely unusual," Sam said.

Dean considered. "Looks like a cult to me."

"Yeah. Pretty much."

It was almost too obvious. Outside was a small sign that read 'Spiritual Community Center' in bland black letters.

Dean gave a humorless chuckle. "Gotta love California…"

Discreetly easing out of the car, they ducked down to keep a low profile, moving from cover to cover towards the building. They crouched, hugging the bushes along the other side of the street, out of view.

Sam raised his head just enough to get a look. "I see cameras," he said quietly.

Dean raised a brow. "Oh, that's great," he muttered. "Let me guess, probably have a security system, too?"

"Probably," Sam said. It wasn't anything they couldn't handle. They'd broken into places with security systems before with decent results. But it was still a pain to deal with.

From their view, Sam was able to make out very heavy-set doors, barely seen beyond the fencing- Big, blocky doors that probably couldn't be lockpicked easily. Unspoken, they knew sneaking in at night was probably their next step. Sam mentally started a list of supplies and techniques for how to get in.

Silently, they rounded another hedge- and nearly collided with Shawn Spencer and Burton Guster.