The night air was whipping through the open windows of the Chevy Impala as Dean Winchester and his brother, Sam, drove down the empty highway, leaving their latest battle with the paranormal in their wake. Sam had his hand raised to his head in mock annoyance as his brother's choice of song bounced from the speakers. They may have been the only ones on the road at three in the morning, but someone, somewhere, was dreaming of taking a bottle and shaking it up, and letting their sugary sweetness flow.
"Really, Dean," Sam attempted to reach for the dial, "Def Leppard?"
"Touch it, Sammy boy," Dean didn't take his eyes off the road, "and you're walkin' the rest of the way to New England."
"Remind me again," Sam retracted his hand and sat more upright in the leather confines of his seat, "why are we heading to New England?"
"Because little brother," Dean's voice was raspy with authority, "I've got thirty days or less and we need her help."
"You really think she's going to want to open old wounds, Dean?" Sam asked, concerned for his brother's well-being, but more so, for what lay in the hands of their old friend and what her reaction would be when they showed up uninvited after so many years had passed.
"You mean you're grasping at straws," Sam muttered, to which Dean floored the Impala.
"I'll take whatever the hell I can get," Dean drove on, "so if it's straws I'm grasping at, call me a sucker."
"Dean," Sam recoiled, apologizing got him nowhere with his brother. They had little time left, since Dean made a deal with the Crossroads Demon to save his brother's life, but the more they butted heads, the more Sam regretted going against Dean's attempts at finding a solution, plausible or not.
"I'm gonna do some research on her," Sam countered, "see what she's gotten herself into as of late."
"Trouble," Dean chuckled, "if it's the Donovan we knew."
"Donovan Lancaster," Sam recited as he scrolled through numerous web pages, reading off the latest bits of information of their childhood friend.
"Teaches a course at the local college, Parapsychology," Sam was interrupted by Dean,
"You tellin' me she's outing what we do?"
"Not in so many words," Sam cleared his throat, "more so, her course focuses on folklore, paranormal activity, and history of the occult."
"Damn it," Dean slammed his palm against the steering wheel, "what did Dad do?"
"You can't blame him for her wanting to explore this, Dean," Sam immediately jumped in front of Dean's accusatory bus to save his father from culpability.
"We took a similar course of action," he went on, "she just decided to fight with words and books."
"Instead of guns and magic," Dean shook his head.
"Wait a tick," Sam stopped Dean, "I'm not so sure about that."
"What did you find," Dean questioned him, trying to sneak a peak at Sam's laptop, silently thanking his latest mechanic for the sweet tire alignment, as he took his eyes off the road for minutes at a time.
"A picture of her house," Sam zoomed in on the photo, "it's one of the oldest in the county, and she was accredited for keeping it in its antique state but keeping it up to date with floral arrangements."
"Unless you're going somewhere with this, Sam," Dean suggested he was getting impatient, as he no sooner took his eyes off the laptop, Sam spoke up.
"Right, sorry," he zoomed the picture out again, "brain fart. She has a circular fence…a circular, white, picket fence."
"Only one reason to surround your house with a circle," Dean smirked.
"Keep evil out." Sam said matter of factly. Dean just nodded and drove.