One-Shot: Supernatural: Structurally Unsound (2/2)

[patriciatepes]

Title: Structurally Unsound
Author: PatriciaTepes (AKA Patricia de Lioncourt at fanfiction.net )
Character(s): Sam, Dean, Castiel, mentions of others, necessary OCs
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~10,269 (total, both parts)
Warnings: Violence-no more than a usual episode; light language-again, no more than a usual episode
State: Alabama
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or any related characters. Those belong to Kripke and the CW.
Author's Notes: This is set within Supernatural season 6, somewhere just past The French Mistake. The places mentioned within this story are real, but I've taken some real fictional liberties with them. And the art included was done by the lovely eyestoowide, as apart of the spn_gen_bigbang. Be sure to check the art out at the link! Also, I'd like to thank my dear friend Kimmi, who not only prompted me this fic for  wishlist_fic(of which it is horribly late, sorry), but also beta-ed for me. Thanks so much, dear!
Summary: Set in SPN S6. The Apocalypse is over, and Purgatory is all anyone can talk about since Eve hit the scene. However, Sam and Dean find themselves drawn to the campus of the University of North Alabama where supernatural mischief has students and professors pushing up daisies. Although they first suspect the little girl ghost, Molly, is responsible, they soon find that that's not the case. Instead, the Winchesters find that they are up against an item the subject of some real curiosity, a bottle tree.



Link to Art Masterpost | Link to Part I | Link to Story Masterpost

Structurally Unsound




They were never early risers, the Winchester boys. But sometimes, when Sam wanted to wake up a bit earlier than eleven in the morning, he would set an alarm. The day following the discovery of the bottle tree, however, was not one of those days. Dean actually managed to roll out of bed before his brother, making a beeline for the bathroom. By the time he was done washing, brushing, and dressing, Sam was awake, looking bleary-eyed at the computer screen.

"Looking for that worm, are we?" Dean asked, taking a seat at the bottom left corner of his bed.

Sam blinked at his brother, as if Dean had spontaneously started speaking French. Finally, he shook his head and said, "No. Look at what's in this morning's paper."

Dean stood and moved to lean over Sam's shoulder. The headline was as clear as day, "Body of Young Girl Found on UNA Campus, Dead." Dean stepped back, rubbing his hand over his face.

"One of ours?" he asked.

"Says it looked like she was beaten to death. But there was no evidence of anyone else having been in the area at the same time she was."

"Where was the body found?"

"In her dorm room. Her roommate had gone home for the weekend, and the door was locked from the inside. Officials had to bust it in to find her when people began to grow concerned."

Dean huffed. "I don't like this. We've gotta find this Emily chick, the artist? And make sure she's okay. I'm gonna guess this new victim was another art student."

Sam nodded, standing. "I hacked into the school's system and found out when and where Emily's classes are. She's got one in about twenty minutes in Stevens Hall. We should start there."

"Then let's go."



At the bottom of Stevens Hall, right on the first floor, was a library. It announced itself as The Learning Resources Center, and Sam and Dean decided that-since they were still early for Emily's class-that would be a good starting point.

"How do we know which student is her?" Dean whispered the moment they walked into the rather small room.

It was definitely large enough for a library, just a small one. One could easily cross the distance from the front desk to the back wall-which was, predictably-lined with books in moments with nothing more than a brisk walk. It looked rather childish to be a library on a college campus, with stuffed animals lying atop many of the blue, metal shelves. And even the books-save for the ones on the wall opposite the door-looked to be for a younger level of readers.

"Dude, what's with this place?" Dean whispered.

"It's for students studying to be high school teachers."

The two of them stopped just past the security posts, staring around the room and marveling on how no one, in the small space of tables, even lifted their heads to look at them.

"Okay, so, I'll say again. Which one is her?"

"May I help you?" came a whiny voice from their right.

The boys turned to see an elder woman, her highlight blonde-and-brown hair cut close to her neck. She was dressed in general, stereotypical old lady librarian garb-high-waisted blue jeans and a simple, pink-and-white striped, long-sleeved cotton shirt. She stood like the beginnings of a hunch was forming on her shoulders, and she looked up at the two of them-being more than a head shorter than Dean-with closed eyes.

"Uh," Dean stammered.

"We're looking for a student. Emily Rogers?" Sam interjected.

The woman pursed her pink-painted, withered lips together. She blinked, the Winchesters catching a flash of dim blue eyes, before her eyelids drifted shut again.

"Um, well, I'm not really able to point out students to unidentified strangers. Besides, we don't do any sort of check in here. It's a library. It'd be different if this was like Collier and she was renting a room for an hour for studying," the woman said, her voice droning in and out between fake-informative and grandmotherly-chastising.

Dean's face scrunched up, unable to really believe what he was seeing or hearing. It was rare that he met anyone that, on first sight, made his flesh crawl and want to claw someone's eyes out. But this woman… Dean was finding the urge to smack her a little strong. Strange, he figured, for someone he had known for like five seconds. He turned, staring up at his brother while Sam placed a self-depreciating smile on his face.

"Oh, I'm sorry, ma'am. We're from the paper, doing a story on local happenings. I understand that Emily is the artist behind the wonderful exhibit in the art gallery?"

The librarian facing them was still doing that pursed-lipped frown, but she shuffled her way over to the single computer behind the desk. She clicked the internet browser icon, and it instantly brought up the university's website.

"Well, let's see what we can find. You know, you can just go to our website here, and click on this link over here," she said, instructing them as if they had never seen a computer before.

Dean shot a pleading look up at Sam, one that clearly said, "Please, man, don't let me hit her." Sam held up two hands, moving them progressively lower. Dean sucked in a deep breath, turning to smile at the librarian as she continued to mumble about how to find what Sam and Dean were looking for. Finally, she arrived at a specific link, scrolling down to reveal a picture of a young girl with pale, rounded features. Her eyes were hidden behind thick, black rimmed glasses that perfectly matched her curly, black hair-which seemed to fall just off her shoulders. She looked rather petite, thin but not to the point of starvation. A caption underneath the picture announced her as Emily Rogers, senior-level art student.

Dean turned, his eyes scanning the room. There, at one of the round, wooden tables just before the line of blue shelves at the back of the room, sat just the girl they were looking for. Her hair was still falling free, forming a curtain around her face as she stared down at the open textbook in front of her. She was dressed in torn jeans-designer torn, not work torn-and a tight-fitting long sleeved blouse decorated with wide, white and black horizontal stripes. Sam hit his hand lightly on the glass cover to the counter.

"Thank you," he said.

The librarian woman opened her mouth to say something, but Dean grabbed his brother by the arm, pulling him toward Emily's table before anything could come out. They stopped, standing over the girl, and cleared their throat to announce their presence. She looked up, a glare catching off the right lens of her glasses, but the other revealing an olive-green eye. She arched a thin brow.

"Can I help you?" she asked, her high-pitched voice rife with confusion.

"Yes, hi, Emily. I'm Sam, and this is Dean. We're from the paper, and we'd like to do an impromptu interview about your art exhibit, if you don't mind," Sam said.

The girl's face instantly lit up, and she straightened in her seat, indicating the two empty chairs across from her. Dean and Sam took the seats, both sharing a single glance to confirm that they felt the same way about the chairs that were ridiculously short for the age group they were suppose to cater to. They then grinned at Emily, and the girl clasped her hands politely over her textbook.

"So, your art," Dean began.

She smiled, nodding.

"What inspired it?" Sam put in.

She flushed, pride lighting her eyes even further. Evidently, she was in no short supply of joy when it came to her possibly murderous exhibit.

"Oh, a variety of things. Life, I guess, is the short answer. I like it to harken to the organic. Nature, you know?"

Well, if that wasn't a perfect segue, then they wouldn't know what was. Dean leaned forward, imitating Emily's clasped hands.

"So, is that the inspiration behind the bottle tree?" he asked.

There it was. A flicker. A dimming of her pride. But it was gone as quickly as it had appeared. Dean glanced at Sam, realizing that his brother had seen it too. Emily grinned, forcing it a bit broader.

"Yes, actually. Oh, and of course, for its cultural significance."

Sam leaned back, a dangerous move for him in such a low chair, but he managed to keep his balance.

"So, you know of the legends? Tell me, Emily, have you noticed anything unusual about your tree?"

Her eyes narrowed at the taller brother. "What do you mean?"

Dean waved his hand, thinking of all the usual ghostly symptoms.

"Cold spots around it. Things moving when they shouldn't be. Strange noises. Anything like that?"

Emily pulled her hands back, crossing them low across her stomach, like she might be a bit sick. She shook her head.

"I'm not superstitious, if that's what you're asking. I don't believe in all that hoodoo crap."

Dean huffed out a small laugh. "Weird. Being an artist, I would think that you'd be more open to it than anybody."

She visibly bristled. "I don't like to reinforce obvious stereotypes, sir."

Sam held up a hand, quick to play damage control.

"Sorry, we didn't mean to offend. If you don't mind me asking… those objects attached to the trunk of the tree. They're pretty random. What made you add them?"

She faltered for just a moment, before shaking her head.

"It's representative, you know? Pollution and all the crap people just don't think about. All of that stuff was things that people lose or throw away on a daily basis without a thought," she explained. Then, with a glance at her watch, she stood, gathering up her items. "Sorry, I've got class."

"Yeah, hey, thanks for your time," Dean said, standing to shake her hand.

She shook it once and bustled out of the library, accidentally bouncing off Sam's shoulder without so much as an apology. Dean turned to Sam.

"What do you think?"

He shrugged. "Something's up with her. But I'm not sure if it's an I-murdered-a-few-students-and-teacher something."

Dean nodded. "Yeah, I got that feeling too. So, square one's looking kind of cozy, isn't it?"

Sam nodded toward a set of semi-ancient desktops across the library. "Let's see if we can dig anything else up on Emily or that art of hers."

The two moved over to take up both seats at the computers, groaning at the slowness of the machines. It took three whole, complete minutes just to get to a search engine. And before either brother could type anything in, an annoying little cough sounded above them. They turned, gazing up at the librarian who had greeted them before.

"I'm sorry," she said in a voice that said that she clearly wasn't. "But those computers are for students only."

Sam smiled, looking a bit strained. "Of course. Sorry."

With that, the Winchesters exited the Learning Resources Center. The moment they left Stevens Hall-a short walk from the library, maybe three feet to the set of glass doors on the left-Dean sighed.

"What the hell was with Bitchy Librarian?"

Sam shrugged. "And I thought we took our jobs seriously."



Dean was at a local bar, called On the Rocks, under the pretense of doing research. Sam had tried to argue with his brother, saying that they should be doing real research that night-since another death would be likely and they still had no information. But Dean could not be swayed, beckoned by the idea of greasy food, beer, and college chicks. So, Sam was alone in their motel, cell phone pressed to his ear as the other end finally answered on the third ring.

"Bobby," Sam said by way of greeting. "What do you know about ghosts and bottle trees?"

The gruff redneck on the other end huffed. "Would that be separate or together?"

Sam shook his head. "We've got a bottle tree, Bobby. Sixteen blue bottles, all filled with trapped ghosts. There are objects on the tree, like attached. It's currently on display in this college's art gallery. There are been various deaths around campus, all art department related, but Dean and I saw the tree. Those ghosts are trapped. They can't pass through the bottles."

Sam could hear the seat behind the desk squeak over the phone as Bobby sat down. He could even hear him shuffling a few books around.

"Haint blue, right?" he asked.

"Yeah. You knew it worked?"

"I'd heard tell of a couple hunters claiming it did."

Sam scoffed. "Why did you never say anything?"

"Wasn't sure. Blue seems an awful lot to hang your life on, son."

Sam nodded. He had a point. Sighing, Sam rubbed his hands over his eyes.

"Bobby, Dean and I have been firmly stuck on square one. And we're worried that the artist herself might end up a vic in this spree. Anything you've got."

Bobby hummed a minute over the line before he groaned.

"What's the tree look like, any special markings?" he asked.

Sam shrugged, fully aware that the motion meant nothing over a phone. He got up from his seat at the foot of one of the double beds, moving over to his laptop on the table. He went to the art gallery's website, scrolling through the pictures until he arrived at the one-deftly ignored earlier as unimportant-of the bottle tree. Sam clicked it, enlarging it as best he could.

"Um… black wrought iron, holding sixteen blue bottles. The items on the trunk are various-hair clips, money clips, a key, a watch. There's, like, eight of the items visible in this picture, but there were more on the backside of the tree."

"Personal looking items?" Bobby asked, his voice indicating a piqued interest.

"Yeah. Why?"

"Is there anything special about the bottles themselves? Other than them being haint blue?"

Sam clicked on the picture, enlarging it so one of the bottles looked even clearer. Sam squinted his eyes, looking over every visible inch of the bottle.

"Um… blue painted cork. I guess that factors in with the haint thing. And… wait, hey. There's something on the bottom of the bottle I'm looking at. It looks like… writing. But I can't make it out in the picture."

"Damn it," Bobby swore.

Sam arched a brow, absentmindedly pressing the cell closer to his ear. "What is it?"

"That sounds familiar. Too familiar. Let me do some searchin', and I'll call you back."

"Okay, Bobby."

The line disconnected with a click. Sam looked at it for a moment, confusion on his face, before he snapped it shut. At that point, the lock to the room clicked, and Dean walked in, the very picture of smugness. Sam rolled his eyes.

"If you had sex in the bathroom, I don't want to hear about it," Sam groaned, tossing the cell to the bed.

Dean shrugged. "Your loss. But no, that's not it. Guess what I discovered tonight?"

Sam leaned back in his chair, waiting for his brother to continue. Dean lifted a single finger and wagged it in the air as he moved to take up a seat on the bed closest to Sam.

"Drunk, young college chicks… like, freshly twenty-one college chicks… they get talkative. And giggly. But the talkative part is what's important."

Sam crossed his arms. "Are you telling me you found something out tonight? Like, really? At the bar?"

Dean's grin was triumphant as he nodded. "Yes, I did. And you know what it was? It was that Emily Rogers… is a bitch."

Brow furrowed, Sam leaned forward.

"What?"

Dean nodded. "Big bitch. Apparently, Emily likes to rant on and on in class about how her work is so superior to others'. Problem was, everyone knew that she didn't have the grades to back it up. See, highest grades gets that gallery honor. Guess who had 'em?"

"Maria Watterson," Sam said, eyes wide.

"Bingo."

"Well, that would give her motive for that death. But that still doesn't explain how… or why the others."

Dean wagged his finger again. "I'm not done. This chick I was talking to tonight… she was plastered, and man, would she not stop the gossip. Guess whose class Emily was flunking?"

"Dr. Rosen's? But what about the other victims? Winter? And the girl in the dorm?"

"Turns out, those two were fairly buddy-buddy in class, Winter and our latest death. And they both shared a very common belief: that Emily didn't do all of her art pieces alone. Actually, they were fairly certain that at least half of them were copied or stolen from someone else."

"Huh," Sam said. "But then, how is Emily doing this? I'd venture that she was somehow doing this without the supernatural influence, but she happens to possess a tree containing sixteen different ghosts. We can't have that big of a coincidence on our hands."

Dean shrugged, and right at that moment, the cell phone sitting behind him rang. He reached for it, giving just a quick glance to the caller ID, and flipped it open.

"Bobby," he said.

"Tell Sam that I found out a bit more about that tree. Or, at least, I'm pretty sure I did," Bobby replied.

Dean relayed the message before putting his attention back to the phone.

"What did you find?"

"A name. Retired hunter by the name of Abigail Rogers. She lives on Woodward Road, right up next to the school. I think you ought to talk to her."

"Cryptic. Text us the address, and we'll try her in the morning."

"Good luck," Bobby said, ending the call.

Dean huffed out a small laugh, looking up at Sam.

"We, apparently, have to talk to an Abigail Rogers, retired hunter."

"Rogers? You think she's any relation to our artist?" Sam asked.

"That or this really is us riding on one hell of a coincidence."



The cat on the front porch was friendly, and it kept rubbing its white, fluffy body up against Dean's leg as he pressed the button for the doorbell. Sam laughed as Dean stooped and, gently, tried to shoo the animal away.

"She likes you," Sam said.

Dean just grinned mirthlessly. It was bright and sunny that morning, and the house they stood outside of was nothing terribly impressive. Old, but maybe not older than the seventies or so, the porch was painting a deep hunter's green, with a seafoam green swing hanging to the boys' right. The rest of the house, however, was an aged white, along with the cracked and peeling painted door that opened a moment later.

The woman was short, her back straight but her hands withered and slightly gnarled. She smiled, brushing her gray curls out of her eyes as she opened the screen door.

"You boys demons?" she asked, a knowing twinkle in her eyes.

Sam and Dean flashed their tattoos. She laughed.

"Oh, dear, I know you're the boys Singer sent my way. Got ol' Bobby's call sometime last night. But it's always nice for grandma to see a bit of flesh now and then. Come in, come in."

The Winchesters exchanged a wide-eyed look before following the woman into her rather modest living room. She gestured for them to take a seat on her large, fluffy brown couch, while she sat in a matching, rocking recliner across from them.

"Would you like anything to drink or eat? Got some fresh sweet potato pie and sweet tea," she said.

Dean lit up, his mouth opening to accept, but Sam smacked him, discreetly, on the shoulder. He frowned, shaking his head.

"No thanks. Um, so Bobby said we should talk to you about the bottle tree."

Abigail lifted a brow. "Oh, yeah. Foolish pursuit of youth, I guess. Used to have it in my backyard, before she snatched… ungrateful young thing."

Sam and Dean looked between themselves. Sam scooted forward a bit in his seat.

"Are you talking about Emily Rogers?" he asked.

She nodded. "My granddaughter. Said she needed it, for her art. I tried to tell her not to fool with it, but the next day, poof. It just come up missin'. And she thinks I'm fool enough to believe that some hoodlums took it. I love her, but, she's not the brightest bulb in the box."

"And… do you know about the deaths, Ms. Rogers?" Dean asked.

The woman's mouth pulled itself into a deep frown, and she swallowed, hard. She nodded. Dean sighed.

"Why haven't you done anything about it?" he asked, a bit more roughly than he had intended.

"Who was gonna believe me, that my granddaughter was using ghosts to kill them people? And I'm old, boys. Real old. Got every old person aliment you can think of short of Alzheimer's. Ain't no way I'd be able to stop her. 'Fraid that's up to you, I suppose."

"Wait," Sam said, holding up his hands. "You said that tree was a foolish pursuit of youth. What did you mean? Why would you trap sixteen ghosts instead of salt and burning their bones?"

Abigail sighed and leaned back in her chair, giving it a small rocking motion. Her eyes were fixated on a spot somewhere above Sam and Dean's heads when she spoke again.

"When it started, I was testing that old hoodoo myth. You know, that ghosts could be destroyed in haint blue bottles in the morning's light? Yeah, load of crap that was. But then… well, I was always a thinker. Guess that's where Emily gets it from, but I'd like to hope that I wasn't as obnoxious about it. I began to wonder if I was really doing 'em ghosts a favor, burning their bones. Sure, trappin' 'em in bottles kept them from killing, which was great… but was I condemning them to a fate worse than death by burning 'em? I wasn't comfortable with that. So, I collected them. And, along with them, I collected items they were attached to, just in case. See, I went and burnt their bones anyhow, to pass it by my parents-who were also hunters. But the personal items, I put them on the tree I built. Sixteen ghosts later… damn, do I regret it. I etched the names of each ghost, and which item goes with which ghost, on the bottom of their bottle."

"That's..." Sam said, trailing. But Dean was quick to pick up the thought.

"Insane. Insanely stupid, actually."

"Dean," Sam chastised softly.

Abigail laughed. "No. The young man's right. And now those poor people have died for my sins, and ain't a damned thing I can do about it. I don't deserve to ask, but… you'll take care of the problem, won't you?"

"Yeah. We will," Dean said.

"But… your granddaughter?" Sam asked.

Abigail frowned once more. "It's a high price. But it's hers to pay. In case y'all were wonderin'… she's planting items. That's how she's doing it. Those pieces on the trunk? I made them removable. Then she's uncorking the bottles. It's hell to get them back in, by the way, but I figure she's done it. She'd have made a great hunter, I think."

"You're crazy," Dean muttered.

Abigail nodded. "I know."

"You made the items removable just in case you had to use them the same way your granddaughter is doing now," Sam said, his voice breathless with disbelief.

The boys stood, and Abigail closed her eyes.

"Would've been a great weapon, hunting-wise. Like I said, foolish pursuits."

The Winchesters shook their heads, and, turning, they left the house without a word. Outside, the friendly cat had taken up residence on the swing, and it meowed loudly as they passed.

"Crazy place," Dean muttered, the brothers' feet hitting sidewalk.

"We need to find Emily, fast. Before she kills again."

"Then we'll go to the source. Tonight," Dean said.



Emily wasn't going to show until dark, of that Dean and Sam were sure. So, they holed up in their motel room, prepping for the night ahead. The clock ticked by slow as hell as Dean loaded a duffle bag with gasoline and rock salt, making sure that the sawed-offs were loaded as well. Sam, meanwhile, was busy gazing over the picture of the tree, as if it would give them some sort of advantage in the fight. A good idea in theory, but, in the end, useless.

The sun seemed to take its time, dragging itself below the horizon. However, finally, it had set, and Sam and Dean made their way to the Impala, tossing their items in the backseat.

"So, how are we stopping Emily, Dean? I mean, she's human," Sam asked as they made the short drive toward the visitor's parking lot of the university.

"We stop the tree, Sam. Maybe Abigail will wake the hell up and deal with her damn grandkid after we do that," the eldest Winchester snapped.

The rest of the ride was silent as Dean parked in the now empty parking lot. They sat there a moment, their eyes drifting in the direction of the gallery. Finally, Sam sighed.

And it came out as a cloud of fog.

"Damn it," Dean swore, reaching, lightning fast, into the back to grab his rifle.

He got his hands on it just in time, as a ghost appeared in Sam's lap-a woman, dressed in a plain blue sleeping gown. Her eyes, however, were dark coals, and her translucent skin was white as paper. She screeched, and Sam's eyes widened.

"Dean!" he shouted.

Dean pulled the gun into the front seat as the ghost wrapped her hands about Sam's neck, pressing down hard. Sam choked, trying to draw in air, and Dean aimed, firing a single shot. The ghost vanished the moment the rock salt bullet hit it, and the casing broke out the glass of the passenger window. Sam gasped, immediately shoving his hands into his pockets.

"She planted something, the bitch!" Dean yelled, and Sam rolled his eyes.

He rooted around the pockets of his pants before finally getting to his jacket and making a small "aha" noise. He withdrew a small, ornamental hairclip, and the boys all but fell out of the Impala. Sam threw the clip to the paved ground, catching the salt that Dean tossed him. Dean rounded the front of the car, pouring on gasoline. He withdrew a book of matches, lighting one up just as the ghost flickered back into existence.

"Not this time," he said, dropping the match.

The flames formed instantly, and the ghost was consumed by the result, screaming until she burnt away. Sam shook his head, grabbing up his weapons.

"Let's go," he said.

The two booked it across campus, not caring if they were drawing any odd looks by the one or two students they passed. They ran their way up the access ramp of death, and didn't stop until they reached the gallery. Yanking open the glass doors, they were unsurprised to see Emily there, removing another item from the trunk of the tree. She made a noise somewhere between a squeak and a screech, putting her back to the brothers as she reached for one of the bottles.

Dean and Sam rushed at her, but she had managed to wrestle one of the bottles free from its hold.

"Don't even think about it, kid," Dean shouted, aiming the shotgun at her.

But Emily was nothing if not brave. She struck out at the elder Winchester, knocking the weapon from his hand as Sam tackled the girl to the ground. Grip lost on the bottle she held, it clattered to the floor, shattering and sending bright blue shards everywhere.

"No!" Emily screeched as a ghost flickered into sight.

It was the one Dean and Sam had seen earlier, the dark haired woman who moved like she was underwater. Dean and Sam pulled back, scrambling for their weapons. Meanwhile, the ghostly woman set her eyes on Emily. Emily pulled herself to her feet, straightening her askew glasses.

Dean got his rifle lined up, ready for the shot, only to have the ghost screech at him. The move sent him flying backward into Sam, and the two landed on the floor with the gun sliding away once more. And, once again, the ghost stalked toward Emily, who was now backing up.

"No. No, I'm not the one you're after," she said.

She ran her hands over her body, trying to find the item she had removed earlier. The ghost loomed over her, standing so close that their faces almost touched. She grasped Emily by the throat, lifting her up off the ground. She screeched, and when she did, a flood of water moved from her mouth to Emily's. The girl struggled, hanging in the air, gurgling as she tried to breathe around the water pouring down her throat.

Dean and Sam were back on their feet now, weapons ready, but Emily had long stopped moving. The ghost dropped her to the ground, the body landing with a thud, and that was when they took their shot. The ghost dissipated when met with the salt, and Dean and Sam lost no time. They searched Emily's body over, looking for the item that had drawn the ghost's attention. They found it, a gold locket with a magnet that had obviously been added much later, sticking to the dead girl's belt buckle. They salted it, doused it in gasoline, and burnt the ghost into oblivion. And, when it was all said and done, they sighed, eyeing the tree.

"Well, I guess we took care of Emily," Dean said dully.

Sam nodded solemnly, his eyes trailing on the poor girl's body. His gaze then lifted to the bottle tree-fourteen bottles still containing ghosts-as he and Dean got to their feet. They approached the tree, ready to finish it, when a flutter of wings sounded behind them. They turned, both clearly surprised to find Castiel standing there.

"Uh, Cas, man… these random visits are fine, but… what the hell are you doing here?" Dean asked.

Castiel's eyes seemed to graze over the deceased Emily's body before landing on Dean.

"I've come to say that I believe Eve is acting faster than we were suspecting. I believe you should leave, immediately, and get back on her trail."

"Which we'll do. As soon as we burn these items, okay?" Sam said.

"No," Castiel said, stepping forward.

Dean lifted a brow. "No?"

"Um, I mean, ah. I'll take it. Eve is of greater import. I'll destroy this tree for you, rest assured."

Dean and Sam exchanged a glance, before Dean finally sighed.

"Sure, whatever tickles your fancy, big guy."

And in a blink, Castiel, with the bottle tree, was gone. Sam looked from the empty platform, to the spot where Cas had been standing, and finally to Dean.

"Wasn't that weird to you?" he asked.

Dean shrugged. "Cas is a weird guy."

"No, Dean. I mean, weird in the way that Cas seemed to really want that tree. Like, it wasn't about him doing us a favor."

Throwing his arms up in an I-don't-know-what-you-want fashion, he sighed.

"Why would Cas want the damn tree? He's right. We need to get back on Eve's trail… and drop Emily's body off with her grandmother. Seems only right."

Sam sighed, but Dean could tell his brother was still not fully convinced. However, the younger Winchester nodded.

"All right, Dean. Let's go."

End Notes: And there you have it. A complete story. As for Castiel's randomness… I ask you all to remember that this is season six, and Castiel was up to a lot of, ahem, extracurricular activities. Oh, and there are a couple of things in here that I've used real people or places or ideas for, but switched to make entirely fictional. Hope you all enjoyed!