Chapter Text
John Winchester glanced up from what he’d been reading on the laptop, only to discover that Dean still hadn’t returned from the restroom. Glancing around the small diner, he wasn’t surprised to see that the cute redhead who’d been waiting on them, and giving Dean some not so subtle looks in the process, was nowhere to be seen either. Shaking his head, he returned his gaze to the laptop but was unable to hide a small smile. It had been nearly six months since Ellicottville, when John had been forced to take matters into his own hands after Dean had nearly been killed on a hunt. John knew his tactics had been unconventional, but they’d worked. Dean had regained his focus and was no longer isolating himself the way he had been after Sam had left for college. Convention, after all, didn’t play a huge role in the life of a Winchester.
Dean slid into the booth across from him and John glanced up, one eyebrow climbing toward his hairline, the earlier smile gone.
“Breakfast burritos from a gas station?” Dean offered with a smirk. “Bad, bad idea.”
“Uh huh,” John replied, picking up a napkin and handing it to his son. “You’ve got burrito on your neck.” He nodded toward Dean’s collar
Dean frowned a little, taking the napkin and rubbing at the place his dad had indicated. When the white paper came away smeared with lipstick, he crumpled it into a ball and cleared his throat. “So, anything interesting?” he asked, suddenly very interested in what John was looking at.
John’s lips twitched but he let it go. Dean was back to being himself and John sure as Hell wasn’t going to complain about that. “Yeah,” he said, turning the laptop and pushing it across the table. “Beauty queens.”
Dean smirked. “Porn? In public? Awesome.”
John rolled his eyes. “Not porn. A case. Seems three young women have died under strange circumstances in the last month. The only connection I can find is that they were all involved in beauty pageants.”
“Strange how?” Dean asked with a small frown as he began reading the pages John had opened.
“One choked to death,” John said. When Dean looked up at him with a confused frown, he continued. “On air.”
“Okay, that’s a little weird,” Dean agreed.
“She wasn’t eating or drinking anything,” John said. “She was young and healthy, talking to friends and just … choked.”
Dean frowned, turning to the laptop and reading for a moment before his eyebrows shot up. “This one drowned drinking a bottle of water?”
John nodded. “Apparently. Unlike the first one, she didn’t choke, she just breathed it into her lungs instead of swallowing it. Seems the third one had a fatal heart attack when one of her fellow contestants startled her with a friendly touch on the shoulder. Coroner says her heart and everything else about her was perfectly healthy.”
Dean read in silence for a moment. “Three different pageants, young healthy women, all checked out under unusual circumstances. Sounds like something worth investigating, all right.”
John nodded as he reached for the laptop and pulled up another page. “And I think a good place to start would be with Winona Richards.” He pushed the computer back to Dean. “The newly-appointed director of a foundation called ‘Sunlight International’, sponsor of all three pageants.”
Dean looked at the screen. “She seems kinda young to be director, doesn’t she?”
John smiled a little. “She’s 63.” His smile widened at Dean’s comical double-take.
“No way!”
John nodded again. “Either she’s had some pretty impressive work done or…”
“She’s gone full-on Dorian Gray,” Dean said, finishing the thought as he studied the picture on the screen. He looked up at his father. “So what are you thinking? She thought Oscar Wilde was on to something and traded her soul for youth and beauty?”
John tried to hide a small smile, knowing that there was a time Dean wouldn’t have admitted to knowing of The Picture of Dorian Gray, let alone who wrote it. Shaking his head a little, he replied, “A simple trade wouldn’t involve these other girls. It’s more likely …”
Dean grimaced and closed his eyes. “Don’t say it.”
John smirked as he finished. “Some sort of black magic.”
Dean let out his breath. “Freakin’ witches, again?”
“We need to check it out. Look for hex bags, talk to this Winona Richards.”
Dean sighed in resignation. “I hate dealing with witches; they’re not just evil, they’re sneaky. Bad combination.”
John grinned in amusement, knowing there were few things that really unnerved Dean and witches were at the top of that list. “We could call Ms. Richards and just ask her if she’s hexed anybody lately. Maybe tell her to knock it off.”
Dean snorted. “Yeah, right.”
“It would sure beat the alternative,” John said, teasing. “Having to talk to beautiful pageant contestants, see what they have to say.” He frowned, feigning a serious expression. “But knowing how you feel about witches, I should probably take this one on my own. Save you the hardship.”
Dean heaved a mock sigh. “What kind of hunting partner would I be if I let you go off into unknown territory like that?”
John rolled his eyes but a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Such sacrifices you make.”
Dean grinned as they paid the bill and left the diner.
~~~
John was in their motel room the next day when Dean came in, already loosening his tie.
“What did you find out?” John asked.
“That the FBI doesn’t get the respect it used to,” Dean replied.
John rolled his eyes. “Before you take it too personally, you might want to remind yourself that you’re not actually with the FBI.”
Dean snorted as he took off his jacket and tie and rolled his shirt sleeves up. “Yeah, well, the coroner made it clear that he thinks the FBI investigating a heart attack is a huge waste of taxpayers’ dollars.” He extracted a small notebook from his pocket and took a seat at the table. “But after the lecture, I got a look at Miranda Peterson’s autopsy report.”
John grabbed two beers out of the fridge before joining Dean at the table. “And?”
Dean shrugged. “Nothing. No injection sites, tox screen negative, heart was strong and healthy, not even any scarring from the so-called heart attack.” He took a long pull from his bottle. “I also took a look at the body but I didn’t see signs of anything supernatural that the coroner might have brushed off as something else.”
John was looking at photos of the three women. “Miranda Peterson was unusually beautiful,” he mused, frowning.
“I don’t imagine it’s easy to get into pageants otherwise,” Dean said distractedly as he sifted through the papers on the table.
John shook his head. “Take a look at this.” He handed Dean a photo. “This is a group photo of the contestants taken on the first day of the pageant.”
Dean studied the picture. “Even in a group of beautiful women, she stands out.”
John nodded, picking up another picture. “No one stands out quite like that in the photo with Jaylene Burtriss, but she was the youngest contestant in that pageant.”
Dean frowned. “What about the first girl? Katey…?”
“Kaley Coulton,” John corrected, picking up another sheet. “She wasn’t the youngest and she wasn’t abnormally beautiful, but she entered a triathlon last year, winning the event and setting a record.”
Dean thought about that for a moment. “Beauty, youth and strength.”
John nodded. “Whoever’s doing this targeted these women for those specific characteristics.”
“So what now?” Dean asked. “We check Miranda Peterson’s room for a hex bag?”
“Depends,” John said with a smirk. “Do you think the FBI talking to beauty pageant contestants would constitute a waste of taxpayer dollars?”
Dean was already rolling down his sleeves again. “I sure as Hell hope so,” he said with a grin.
~~~
John left Dean to talk to some of the girls while he asked questions of the administrative staff.
“Well?” John said once they’d met up to compare notes.
“Same old, same old,” Dean said, “Nobody saw anyone unusual hanging around, Miranda was nice, personable, no enemies that anyone knew of, yadda yadda. Her roommate let me look around but no sign of a hex bag, anywhere. Were you able to talk to Richards?”
John shook his head. “She’s not expected back in the office until Monday, but I did manage to get her home address from her secretary.”
Dean cocked an eyebrow. “She just handed over her boss’ personal information?”
“He wouldn’t do that,” John said with a smirk. “So while he was gathering the personnel files I told him I’d need to look at, I helped myself.”
“Great,” Dean said, nodding approvingly. “While I usually try to stay away from witches whenever possible, I want to see what this 63 year old looks like up close. “
~~~
When they rang the bell at Winona Richards’ house, the man who answered appeared to be in his late twenties, early thirties. “May I help you?” he asked amiably.
John flashed a smile along with his badge. “Agent Farner, FBI.” He gestured toward Dean. “This is Agent Brewer. We’d like to speak with Winona Richards.”
The man frowned slightly. “FBI? What’s this about?”
“Is Ms. Richards here?” Dean asked in his most business-like tone.
“Yes, of course, please come in,” the man said, obviously flustered. He led them to a rather garishly-decorated sitting room. “Make yourselves comfortable and I’ll tell Winona you’re here.”
“Holy crap,” Dean muttered under his breath as he looked around the room. The walls were adorned with what could only be described as erotic paintings, many of them appearing to be quite old. Between the paintings were pedestals holding small statues. “Eros, Venus, Aphrodite,” Dean read the small plaques as he walked around the room. He came to a painting depicting a half-man, half-bull having sex with a woman. “Who’s this guy supposed to be?”
“How the Hell should I know?” John asked gruffly.
Dean chuckled and continued around the room, stopping at one point and tilting his head slightly as he tried to figure out if the position depicted was actually possible. The last wall had a variety of Oriental art, some of it even more explicit than the rest, and interspersed between the paintings were ceremonial swords in intricately-decorated scabbards. “Considering the theme of the room, do I even want to know what the swords are for?” Dean deadpanned.
John snorted. “Probably not.”
The man returned a moment later with a beautiful woman at his side. It was obviously the same woman from the picture they had, but she was even more striking in person and without any sign of her true age or any work she might have had done.
“Gentlemen,” she greeted them. “I’m Winona Richards. My husband, Robert, tells me you’re with the FBI.”
“Yes, ma’am, Agents Farner and Brewer,” John said. “We’d like to ask you some questions about the death of Miranda Peterson.”
She frowned slightly, looking from John to Dean and back again. “I don’t understand. Miss Peterson suffered a heart attack. It’s tragic in someone so young, yes, but it’s not exactly unheard of.”
“No,” John concurred, “but three healthy young women are dead and they were all contestants in your beauty pageants.”
“Surely you can see how that might raise some questions,” Dean said, one eyebrow rising.
She put a hand to her chest as she sank into a gaudy-looking chair. “Oh my,” she said seeming flustered. After a second, she shook her head and gestured toward the sofa. “Please.” She waited for John and Dean to take a seat before she continued. “I understood that all three of those poor girls died of natural causes.”
“The idea of someone drowning while drinking a bottle of water sounded natural to you?” John asked, trying to disguise his skepticism. “Or choking to death when her airway didn’t appear to be obstructed in any way?”
Winona pursed her lips, her eyes narrowing slightly. “I had assumed, as did nearly everyone else, that there were unknown medical conditions that contributed to those deaths.”
“I guess that’s one theory,” John said evenly.
Dean cleared his throat. “Aside from being pageant contestants, do you know of anything these three girls had in common?”
As soon as Winona turned to face him, her expression softened. “I’m sorry, I don’t. As director, I have very little contact with the girls on a personal level. I knew about the deaths, of course, but I thought it was a merely a run of extremely unfortunate coincidence,” she said. “It never once occurred to me that they might be related.” She looked from Dean to John. “Surely you’re not suggesting they were murdered.”
“We’re not suggesting anything,” John said calmly. “We’re just trying to determine what happened.”
“Oh,” she said, sounding somewhat relieved. “Ok. How can I help?”
“Your appointment as director was quite recent, wasn’t it?” Dean asked.
She nodded. “Yes, about three months ago.”
“And what did you do before that?” he continued.
“I’ve worked in the pageant industry for over twenty years,” she replied. “When Sunlight International became a major sponsor, they employed me as a consultant. That was six years ago and I worked my way up from there.”
“This isn’t something I’d normally ask a lady,” Dean said with a charming smile, “but the birthdate they have listed for you can’t possibly be right, can it?”
She smiled smugly. “I’ll be 64 in November,” she said.
“Wow, that’s …. If you don’t mind me saying so, you look great for your age,” Dean said with an approving smile of his own.
She laughed lightly. “Young man, if I didn’t want people to notice and comment, I wouldn’t go to so much trouble.” She punctuated the statement with a wink.
“You could probably make a fortune selling your secrets,” John said, smiling, though it didn’t really reach his eyes.
“I wish it were that easy,” she said lightly. “But aside from good nutrition and exercise, my only secret is good genes.” She offered a coy smile. “If they ever find a way to bottle that, I’ll be in business.” She turned to her husband. “Robert, my love, would you be a dear and get our guests something to drink?”
“Thank you, but I think we’re done here,” John said, getting to his feet while Dean did the same.
“Oh, all right,” Winona said, also rising. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help. I do hope you’re not wasting your time looking for a connection that doesn’t exist.”
John smiled, though Dean could tell it wasn’t genuine. “We appreciate the concern for our time,” he said. “But we’ll get to the bottom of this, one way or another. May we contact you if we have further questions?”
“Please do,” she said, holding out her hand.
John shook her hand while Dean shook Robert’s and they left the house.
“Did you buy any of that?” Dean asked as they got into the car.
John snorted. “Not a word.”
“Me neither,” Dean said. “We’ll have to check into that husband of hers. They may be working together.”
“Or she could go through husbands like you go through cheeseburgers,” John said, glancing in the rear view mirror before pulling into the street. “Good genes my ass.”
~~~
After picking up a pizza, John and Dean made their way back to the motel.
“So,” Dean said, grabbing a couple of beers from the fridge. “What’s our next move? Stake out the director?”
“We need to check out that house,” John said, opening the pizza box and grabbing a slice. “If she planted a hex bag somewhere in Miranda’s room, she could have removed it once the girl was dead.”
Dean had bitten into a slice and was nodding as he chewed. “As director, she can pretty much come and go as she pleases.”
John opened the laptop and hit a few keys while he ate. “Robert Richards,” he finally said, turning the screen so Dean could see it.
Dean frowned as he read. “So he’s actually 34,” he said. “Whatever mojo she’s using on herself, she’s not using it on him.”
“Not yet,” John concurred. “She’s either keeping herself young so she can get young men or she wants to keep this one looking good now that she’s found what she likes.”
“Or this is all crap and they’re both older than they’re letting on,” Dean said.
“That’s always a possibility,” John grumbled. He took another bite of his pizza and started browsing through pageant websites. After a few moments, he stopped clicking and just sat there, frowning at the screen.
Dean glanced at him as he reached for another slice. “Find something?”
“No,” John said, shaking his head slightly. “I just …”
“Just what?” Dean asked, taking a drink from his bottle.
“Nothing,” John said, shaking his head again. He tried to concentrate on the screen but a moment later, he abruptly got to his feet and headed into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.
When he emerged a few minutes later, Dean frowned. “You OK?”
“Yeah,” John said, ignoring the beer on the table and going to the fridge for a bottle of water. After downing half of it, he nodded. “Yeah, I’m good.” He returned to the table and started going through the papers there while Dean used the laptop.
Twenty minutes later, Dean turned the laptop to face his father. “Check this out.”
John scanned the picture displayed on the screen. It was similar to the pageant pictures they’d been looking at but judging by the clothing and coloring, it looked much older. He was just about to ask Dean the significance when he caught sight of a familiar face. “Winona Richards.”
Dean nodded. “But in this picture, her name is Rebekah Winters and if the birthdate we have on her is accurate, she’s nine years old.”
“Well she sure as Hell isn’t nine years old in this picture,” John pointed out needlessly. “So we have no way of knowing how old she really is or how long she’s been doing this.”
“Or if she’s human at all, for that matter.” Dean added
“Anything on her husband?” John asked.
Dean shook his head. “Nothing. I don’t know if that’s because he is who he says he is or because he’s not.”
“First thing in the morning, we’re paying the Richards’ another visit,” John said gruffly.
~~~
The second time they rang the bell at the Richards’ home, it was Winona herself who answered.
“Agents,” she said, obviously surprised. “I didn’t expect we’d be seeing you again.”
When John didn’t say anything, Dean smiled. “We just have a few more questions.”
“Ok,” she said uncertainly before opening the door wider. “Please, come in.”
“Is your husband at home?” John asked.
"Robert?" she asked, frowning as she led them into the same room as last time. "Yes. Why? He doesn’t have anything to do with the pageants or those girls.”
“Even so, we have a few things we’d like to ask him about,” Dean said amiably.
As if summoned, Robert appeared in the doorway. “Agents,” he said with a friendly smile as he entered the room. “I wasn’t expecting to see you again so soon.” He frowned. “Has something happened?”
“You could say that,” John said grimly. “Three young women are dead and we think you and your wife are responsible.”
Dean gaped at his father for a second before masking his shock with a nervous smile. “What my partner means, is, we think it may have something to do with the pageants and, since Mrs. Richards is the director, we…”
“Save it,” Winona said, cutting him off even though her angry expression was trained on John. “Just what do you think you’ve learned, agent?”
John smirked. “You know we’re not FBI,” he challenged. “Just like we know what you are… witch.”
“Hunters,” she hissed, looking back and forth between the two of them.
“That’s right,” John said quietly. “We know you’ve been stealing youth and beauty from your contestants and we’re here to put an end to it.”
Dean felt like he was in a bad movie where someone had forgotten to give him the script. To his surprise, Winona’s anger seemed to dissipate before his eyes to be replaced with an expression of regret and remorse. “You don’t understand,” she said urgently. “It’s not for me, it’s…”
“For Robert,” Dean said when her words trailed off.
She turned her full attention on him, eyes pleading. “I love him,” she insisted. “You don’t know what it’s like to love someone and have to watch them grow old and die, knowing you never will.”
“Victoria,” Robert warned as he took a step toward her. “That’s enough.”
“No, James,” she said, “If we can make them understand, they’ll see that true love is worth it.”
Dean scrunched up his face in disbelief. “Worth killing innocent women for?”
“Worth everything,” she insisted.
“It’s not love if you have to kill to keep it,” John said bitterly.
Her demeanour changed so quickly it was like someone had thrown a switch and it took Dean’s mind a moment to acknowledge the transition.
“What would you know about it?” she practically spat. “You’re a hunter, you don’t know the meaning of true love.”
“You done?” John asked, one eyebrow raised.
“She’s right,” Robert, or James or whatever the Hell his name was, interjected. “Victoria did it for me. For us.” He gazed adoringly at the woman. “She’s the most powerful, most magnificent creature to ever walk this earth. I knew she would never age and I couldn’t bear the thought of being separated from her at the time of my death, so she made me a promise on our wedding night. Every ten years, three young women would make a sacrifice of love, strength and beauty so that our love, the one true love can burn for all eternity as it was meant to.”
Dean realized his mouth was open and he clapped it shut. They weren’t just witches, they were fucking lunatics.
“Sacrifice?” John growled. “Try murder.”
“Don’t give me that bleeding heart bullshit,” Victoria sneered. “You’re hunters, you kill for a living and for far less reward than what we gain from what we do. I see more young women taken from this life when I turn on the evening news than you could ever attribute to the love of a millennium.”
“Call it what you want,” John said, drawing the consecrated iron knife from the sheath at the back of his waistband. “It ends now.”
James lunged at him with an inhuman growl and John had no choice but to plunge the blade into his heart.
“No!” Victoria screamed as her husband crumpled to the floor. She was at his side in an instant, tears flowing down her cheeks as the man gasped his last breath and lay still on the floor. In a matter of seconds, he morphed from the good looking thirty-something he’d been to an old, shriveled corpse of indeterminate age.
“Look what you’ve done!” she screeched as she got to her feet. “I was right to curse you as the hateful man you are. You don’t know how to love. All you know is evil and death.”
“And I’m looking at both,” John growled, moving quickly to stab her in the heart.
She looked down at the blade protruding from her chest and then up at him with a glare. “Your weapons won’t work on me,” she hissed.
“Yeah? How about yours?” Dean asked, swinging the sword he’d grabbed from the wall and taking off her head in one clean strike.
John looked from the two bodies to the head that had rolled a few feet away and then to Dean who had blood sprayed across his face and chest. “And you wonder why people are losing respect for the FBI.”
“What the Hell was that?” Dean demanded, dropping the sword. “You walk into the home of someone you suspect to be a powerful witch and just outright accuse her?”
“Yeah, well, she pissed me off,” John said irritably as he pulled his knife from Victoria’s body, wiping it clean and returning it to its sheath. “Besides, we got the result we were after.” He began rolling James’ body up in the area rug it had fallen on. “Bring one of their cars around back while I clean up in here.”
An hour later, they were on the road, Dean driving the Impala while John followed behind in the Richards’ Cadillac. They found an abandoned field flanked by trees on two sides, far enough out of town to lessen the risk of being seen and John parked the car with the bodies inside and doused it with gasoline before tossing a match at it. They watched it catch and burn for a moment, just to make sure it wasn’t going to fizzle out, and they were making their way back to the Impala when John cursed under his breath. Without a word to Dean, he stomped angrily toward the edge of the treeline.
Dean glanced over, believing that his dad probably had to piss but John’s arm movements caught his eye and he couldn’t help staring at his dad’s back in surprise. When John returned a few minutes later, Dean was still staring. “Dude! I like a good fire as much as the next guy,” he said, “but did you seriously just rub one out in the bushes?”
“It wasn’t the fire,” John snapped. He moved to get into the car but then stopped with an aggravated sigh, his posture tense. “I think that bitch did something to me.”
“Something like what?” Dean asked with a small frown.
“Like a fucking curse or something,” John growled. “I’ve been fucking horny since we left their house the first time.”
Dean stared at him for a moment before he burst out laughing.
“Damnit, Dean, it’s not funny,” John said irritably.
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Dean said, trying to control his mirth. “It’s fucking hilarious.”
He got himself under control and cleared his throat before speaking. “So, what, like a sex curse?”
“Apparently,” John said sullenly.
“And it didn’t stop when we killed her?”
“Obviously not,” John said, gesturing at the bushes in frustration.
Dean had to stifle another snicker, knowing that he could only go so far before John took a swing at him. “So that’s why you were so … irritable when we talked to her the second time?”
“I was up half the night jerking off!” John exclaimed in frustration.
Dean snorted, then held up a hand in apology. “Ok, so … how do you fix it?”
John sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I thought I could take care of it on my own, but … it’s not working.”
“It?” Dean asked, cocking one eyebrow.
John glared at him. “My cock’s working fine,” he growled. “But jerking off only lasts a short while and then it’s back, stronger than it was before.”
“So what are you going to do?”
John glanced at the burning car. “Whatever it is, unless I want to be doing it in a fucking jail cell, we’d better get out of here.”
Dean drove as they headed back toward the motel.
“Stop up here,” John said, indicating a small bar a couple of blocks from where they were staying.
“You want a drink?” Dean asked, surprised.
“No,” John said shortly as Dean pulled up in front of the small establishment. “Go on back to the motel. I’ll meet you there.”
Dean caught on and smirked. “Good luck,” he said as John got out of the car. He snickered when John shot him an annoyed look before disappearing into the bar. Shaking his head, Dean pulled out and headed for the motel.
A couple of hours later, Dean looked up from the laptop as his dad entered the motel room.
“Well?” he asked, “Did you find somebody?”
“Of course I found somebody,” John said with a scowl. “There’s always somebody wanting to be found if you know where to look.”
“Thanks for that pearl of wisdom,” Dean deadpanned. “What I meant was, did it help?”
“I don’t know,” John said with a sigh. “So far, so good.” He frowned at Dean in concern. “I guess we should be glad whatever she got me with didn’t get you, too.”
Dean shrugged. “Unlike you and Sam, I’ve always been open and honest about my sex drive,” he said with a smirk. “Maybe I’m immune.”
John cocked an eyebrow. “When you’re raising two impressionable kids, it’s called being discrete.”
Dean snorted. “Well, whatever you want to call it, you …” He stopped talking as John cursed, his jaw clenching. “Again? Already?”
“I guess that answers your question,” John grated. “It didn’t help.”
Dean looked at him for a moment as he thought about their options. “I think we need to call Bobby,” he said.
“What?” John growled angrily. “No fucking way!”
Dean rolled his eyes, knowing that John hated admitting he couldn’t handle something on his own, especially something concerning his own body. “Dad, you can’t keep this up.” John shot him a murderous look and Dean had to play it back in his head before he realized what he’d said. He snickered. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it that way, but I don’t know what else to suggest. Maybe Bobby knows of a counter-spell or something.”
John considered that for a moment. “Fine,” he finally growled, pulling out his phone and hitting Bobby’s number before putting it on speaker.
“Yeah,” Bobby answered gruffly.
“Hey,” John said, trying to stay composed. “I think we might need your help.”
“We? Is Dean with you?”
“Yeah,” John replied.
“Hey, Bobby,” Dean called out.
Bobby sighed into the phone. “That figures. The only idgit who can get himself into more trouble than you is that one. What did you get yourselves mixed up in this time?”
“I’ve been hit with a fucking sex curse,” John replied irritably.
There was silence on the other end of the line for a brief moment. “Then what the Hell are you callin’ me for?” the older hunter exclaimed.
Dean laughed but tried to stifle it when John glared in his direction.
“Look, it’s not like I don’t know how these things work, but I’ve tried everything and it’s not getting any better,” John said. Reluctantly, he added, “In fact, it’s getting worse.”
“Worse how?” Bobby asked.
“At first it was just annoying and inconvenient but nothing I couldn’t take care of myself, if you catch my drift.”
“I’m old, not dead,” Bobby grumbled. “Of course I catch your drift. So? What changed?”
John clenched his jaw. “After the first time I was good for a few hours, now I’m lucky if I can go ten minutes.”
Bobby sighed again. “I can’t believe I’m askin’ this, but … are you hard? Or just horny?”
“One tends to lead to the other,” John growled.
“But bein’ horny for a few hours ain’t gonna permanently damage nothin’, ya idgit.”
John clenched his jaw, unable to believe he was asking Bobby for advice about hard-ons, of all things. “I know the dangers of priapism but this isn’t like that. It gets soft after I come, but it’s hard again so fast that a teenager would be jealous,” he hissed.
Dean snickered again, the sound causing John to glare at him.
“Any pain?” Bobby asked.
“Not at first,” John replied. “But now, the only time it doesn’t hurt is right after I blow my wad.”
“Thanks for the visual,” Bobby said gruffly. “Have you tried just going out and getting laid?”
“Do you think I would have called you if I hadn’t tried that?” John demanded in annoyance. “I picked up a woman in a bar for Christ’s sake.”
“And?” Bobby prodded.
“What, you want a fucking blow by blow?” John practically yelled into the phone.
“Gimme that,” Dean said, taking the phone away from his dad. “Hey, Bobby, it’s me. What Dad’s trying to say is, it didn’t work.” He smirked a little, stepping out of arm’s reach as he added, “I mean, I guess it worked fine, but an hour later he’s right back where he started.”
“Only worse,” John said, loud enough for Bobby to hear.
“How’d he get cursed in the first place?” Bobby asked irritably.
“We were working this case and there was a witch and her husband. They’d been killing young women for their youth and beauty. She didn’t exactly take kindly to us trying to stop her and, well, you know Dad.”
“He pissed ‘er off,” Bobby concluded.
Dean snorted. “We ganked ‘em both, but apparently that didn’t change anything.”
Bobby hummed thoughtfully. “Did she say anything specific?”
Dean watched his father go into the bathroom and close the door. “Uh, not really. She tried to convince us that love was worth any sacrifice, Dad told her it wasn’t love if they had to kill to keep it, she told him he didn’t know what love was. Seriously, Bobby, this chick was big into the love thing. Her house is full of cupids and love gods and all that shit. But aside from that, she didn’t say anything that sounded like a spell or … an incantation or anything like that.”
“Contrary to popular belief, they don’t have to be said out loud,” Bobby informed him. “Did she touch him at all?”
Dean frowned. “She shook his hand when we left the first time, but that’s it.”
“That’s enough,” Bobby said with a sigh. “If she was particularly powerful, she could have hexed him with just a couple of his skin cells.”
“So how do we undo it?” Dean asked. “Or does it have to run its course?”
“Depends,” Bobby said thoughtfully. “If I knew exactly how she cursed him, maybe I could find a spell to break it. Otherwise, it’ll probably wear off at some point, if it don’t kill ‘im first.”
Dean frowned, the situation suddenly more serious. “What, you mean like a heart attack or something?”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” Bobby admitted, “but I guess it’s a possibility. He ain’t as young as he used to be.”
“Then what did you mean?” Dean asked.
“There’s no way of knowin’ what she had in mind,” Bobby said, almost apologetically. “She might have intended for this to last the rest of his life, or for a certain period of time, or until a particular requirement is met. Sometimes those requirements have to be met within a certain time frame. Not makin’ that deadline could kill ‘im, not meetin’ the right requirement could kill ‘im. Without more information, I just don’t know what to tell ya, son.”
Dean glanced at John as he exited the bathroom. “So, how do these things work, usually? You said skin cells, so she’d make, what, like a hex bag?”
“That’s one method. Or she could have a shrine where she casts her spells. She can’t just twitch her nose and steal somebody’s youth. That kinda crap requires rituals and all that mumbo jumbo. Find out where she’s been performin’ them, you might find out what she had in mind for your daddy.”
“Awesome,” Dean breathed. “I’ll check into that. If I find anything, I’ll let you know.”
“I’ll look into what I’ve got here,” Bobby said, “see if I can find anything similar.”
“Thanks Bobby.” Dean disconnected the call and handed the phone back to his dad. “If she was using a shrine of some sort, chances are it’s in her house.”
“Let’s go,” John said grimly.
~~~
They let themselves into the house by picking a lock in the back. Once inside, they used flashlights to make their way through the dark rooms, unwilling to turn on any lights.
“Shrines are usually in the basement, right?” Dean asked.
John snorted. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
They made their way to the basement and found a wine cellar, a furnace room and a lot of storage but nothing that resembled what they were looking for. They were about to return to the upper level when Dean flashed his light from one side of the wine cellar to the other. “This isn’t right,” he mused.
John followed his gaze, adding his own beam of light to the situation. “You’re right. This room’s only half as wide as it should be.”
They followed the one wall until John found an odd looking bottle that didn’t seem to align with the others. Lifting it, he was surprised when the entire wall swung inward, revealing a hidden room. “Fucking witches,” he grumbled as he drew his gun.
Dean did the same and they cautiously made their way into the dark room. As soon as they determined there were no windows, Dean hit the light switch near the door.
“Holy crap,” he breathed. There were candles everywhere and Dean briefly thought about how long it must take to light them all. One wall was all shelves, each filled with a variety of jars and bottles, neatly labeled. At the other end of the room was what looked like an altar covered in black velvet. In the center stood a silver bowl and beside that, a worn, leather-bound book.
“Like I said,” Dean murmured. “Always in the basement.”
Stepping closer, John looked into the bowl to find it contained a few bones, a red feather, a coloured powder that he couldn’t identify and something that had him cursing under his breath.
“What is it?” Dean asked, stepping closer.
Not wanting to touch anything in the bowl, John took a knife out of his pocket and fished out the grainy photo.
“Fuck,” Dean said as he looked at the picture. Staring back at him was his father’s face. “This was from the first time we were here,” he said, his observation based on what John was wearing in the picture. He could see a bit of lawn and sidewalk so he knew it was probably taken on the Richard’s front porch.
“Yeah,” John said. “Probably a security camera.” He turned the picture over, taking note of the swirling script there. “And this is probably the spell.”
“Can you read it?” Dean asked.
“I can make out the letters, but it’s all in Latin. ‘Sexus’ probably speaks for itself,” he said grimly. “But I don’t recognize enough of the other words to put it in context.”
“We’ll send it to Bobby,” Dean suggested. When he didn’t get a response, he turned to look at his father. “Hey, you OK?” he asked, concerned. John was clenching his jaw hard enough to break something and sweat was breaking out on his forehead.
“We need to get out of here,” John said, his voice tight.
“Oh,” Dean said, no longer finding his dad’s situation so amusing. “Yeah, OK.” He could tell the curse was taking a toll on John physically and he was suddenly aware that it really might kill him. Only the fact that they couldn’t risk leaving their DNA in the house stopped him from suggesting his dad find a secluded corner to take care of it.
“You should get out of the house,” Dean suggested. “I’ll take care of the security equipment and meet you at the car.”
“Can you make it back to the motel?” Dean asked, when he joined his dad at the car a short time later. “Or should we stop somewhere?”
“Motel,” John said shortly as he handed over the keys. “You drive.”
As soon as they got back to the motel, John locked himself in the bathroom. Dean heard the shower start a moment later and he pulled out his phone to call Bobby. “Hey,” he said once the older man answered.
“Find anything?” Bobby asked.
“Yeah,” Dean replied. “She had a picture of Dad from a security camera. There’s a bunch of Latin written on the back, but most of the words I don’t recognize.”
“Type it out and send it to me,” Bobby instructed. “Until I know exactly what it is, I don’t want you reading it out loud.”
“Good point,” Dean said, frowning at the words warily. “And, uh, I know I don’t have to say this, but the sooner the better, Bobby.”
“Is it getting worse?” the older man asked, concern bleeding through the gruff voice.
“Yeah, I think so,” Dean said, glancing at the bathroom door. “I’ll send this as soon as I type it out.”
With that, he disconnected the phone and headed straight for the laptop, carefully typing each word into an email and sending it to their friend.
He only hoped they weren’t already too late.
End of Part One