Happy Birthday, Merisha! You asked for it and here it is. The back story of the ladle in my triple drabble "Cutlery". That means pre-season, angst, and plenty of Dean whump. Some of it gruesome. YAY!

A/N: The story is complete in three chapters. To stretch out Merisha's enjoyment and her anxiety—which of course is my only goal—this story will post weekly. Thanks to my readers/betas and co-conspirators: silver ruffian and Muffy Morrigan.

A/N: I know three words of Spanish, and can't pronounce even those correctly. No offense to anyone intended. The original spanish in this chapter could be blamed on babelfish and igoogle. Update! New and improved Spanish courtesy of LiafromBrazil. Thank you!

Shamless Plug: I have a new story appearing in a zine this month, June 2009: Blood Brothers 3. If you are interested in a copy, please contact the publisher at this address: TeaJunkie at comcast dot net You can also PM me or check the link in my profile page.

Disclaimer: For fun, not profit. I own nothing.

Sam looked good—really good. His jeans didn't even have a knee blown out, and they were long enough to catch under his heel. He was wearing a white shirt, kinda girly, but it was new. And he was wearing flip-flops. His hair was still a mop, bangs down in his eyes, and Dean could swear the kid's nose had gotten longer.

Sam looked tan, fit, and relaxed. Dean couldn't remember the last time Sam had looked that relaxed when he was living with them. His teen years had been one long teenage-hormone battle with Dad no matter what Dean did, and when Dad wasn't in the house, which was most of the time, and Sam needed a punching bag, Dean was right there.

He tried to remember the last time he was relaxed when Sam was living at home. What did his teacher call it? She said Dean was as jumpy as a long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.

Sam was walking with his girl across campus, laughing. God, he looked so happy.

And damn if Sam didn't suddenly swing his head up from saying something to Jessica and look right in Dean's direction. He hadn't lost his touch, even after two and a half years. Fading back slowly, Dean slipped between two sets of pedestrians and walked away, keeping a stand of trees between them.

The sun was almost at zenith. Checking his watch, he almost slapped himself. It was an hour and a half to Stockton from here, and he had an hour before his appointment. Crap. He risked a glance behind him to confirm that Sammy wasn't following him before sprinting toward the Impala.

He couldn't afford to screw up a paying job.

He usually avoided highways, and avoided highways in California like the plague, but there was no time to drop south around the Bay. That meant I84 across the Dumbarton Bridge, through Union City to Livermore, and he grudgingly realized, the 580 to I5 to Stockton. His stomach dropped a little bit when he couldn't reach the museum curator live but he left a message and hoped for the best.

Accelerating up Niles Canyon Road, he popped in Master of Puppets and cranked up the volume. Dad was never going to excuse his foray into California without a payoff, especially when Dean was supposed to be twenty five hundred miles east in Tuskegee. If he brought in enough money, maybe the next time they met up in-person, Dad would overlook his side trip to see Sam. Even so, he was going to pay for this one way or another.

He'd probably get one of Dad's weird as shit assignments. Like restacking all the cars in Bobby's junkyard to form a pentagram using only dental floss and a pair of chopsticks. He laughed out loud. That was a year and a half ago and one hell of a lot of dental floss. And Bobby had helped him make a really big pair of chopsticks. Hydraullically powered. They were awesome.

Damn, he missed the old man. He hadn't seen him for almost five months since Bobby and Dad had gone at it the last time, shotgun cocked and everything. Dean thought about calling a million times, but Dad would know, he always knew, and Dean would be back to towing the Impala with his left nostril or digging a scale model of the MarianasTrench.

But that was one good thing about Dad. He would eventually forgive you your trespasses, and when he did they were gone, evaporated, like they'd never happened. But you sure as shit had to work for it. Dean spent the next hour fighting his way to Stockton, cutting over to I99 and driving due north to the Stockton Historical Society & Museum right in the center of the city. Through the stop and go traffic, he wondered what Bobby and Sam might have to do to get back in John's good graces.

That got him laughing again. Bobby would just go ahead and shoot Dad. But Sam? Who was he kidding? All Sam had to do was walk in the motel door and Dad would kill the fatted calf.

Dean scrubbed his face. So would he. He should know better than to check on Sam before a job. It always made him all introspective and emo.

Pulling into the museum parking lot at 1:23, he dodged a couple of tourists, and barreled through the front door to the information desk, skidding to a stop on the polished floor.

"I'm here to see, um" he consulted his note, "Ms. Barkley, please."

"I'll let her know you're here." As the receptionist reached for the phone, Dean looked around the lobby. It was an open air atrium, the arches cresting at least fifty feet up, and his eyes were drawn to a huge—mobile, or something artsy-fartsy—hanging from the ceiling. It was made up of metal struts, fabric, and stained glass and was rotating slowly overhead.

"Mr. Winchester?"

Dean spun, and my, oh my, if that was Ms. Barkley, he was going to be a happy man.

"Yeah." Clearing his throat, he tried again, smiling. "Yes. I'm Dean Winchester. Ms. Barkley? I'm sorry I'm late. I hope you got my voice mail."

"I'm Ms. Anderson. Mrs. Barkley is the curator of the museum. I'm an assistant curator." She pointed toward a door marked 'Offices' inset under a smaller arch just off the lobby. "If you'll come with me, please, Mr. Winchester?"

He held out his hand. "Please. Call me Dean. And I'll be glad to come with you anywhere."

Blushing, she shook his hand before stepping toward the door. "Right now, I'd just like you to walk with me in this direction."

"And later, would you like to do something else with me?" His eyes lit up. "I'm free this evening."

She hushed him and opened the door, revealing a sterile hallway with closed doors on either side, a stark contrast to the lively displays and open air brightness of the museum lobby.

Ms. Anderson, her nametag only said 'M', opened the door announcing, "Mr. Winchester, Mrs. Barkley," before closing the door, leaving him alone with the curator.

She was quite beautiful, her hair changing to silver, back very erect, and a gleam in her eye that made Dean smile in response as he walked forward to shake her hand. She barely reached his shoulder but her attitude was big enough that it felt she was looking him straight in the eye.

"Call me Dean."

"Call me Victoria." She paused for a moment eyebrows up. "No?" Laughing, she sat, and gestured Dean toward a chair. "Vickie will be fine."

"I'm sorry, I don't really…"

"It's a Stockton joke, and you are probably too young to recognize the reference." She waved a hand at a large framed photo on the wall. Dean looked at it, frowned, and stood to get a closer look. Some people in western gear, standing around a very striking white haired woman. It wasn't until he was reading the signatures that he made the connection.

"That show—I remember that show. Big Valley, right? That's the guy who was in the Six Million Dollar Man." He tapped a finger on the glass. "She's older, but she reminds me of you." He looked back at her then at the picture. "Oh. Her name on the show was Victoria Barkley?"

"Just a coincidence, but an occasion for merriment in Stockton. My maiden name was McGhee. The actress is Barbara Stanwyck. The blonde is Lee Majors, and yes, that was his next series. The others' careers were a bit rockier. The man who played Jarrod," she joined him at the picture and pointed, "is probably best known for playing opposite Juliet Mills in "The Nanny and the Professor." Grimacing, she moved back to the desk, and sat gracefully. "Let's talk about why you're here."

"I got some of the details before I came. Why don't you tell me what you think is going on. What was the first thing you noticed?"

"Objects in the display cases moved overnight. We started to hear noises in the walls or floor. Tapping or scratching. When we checked the security cameras, they had either gone to static, or else showed nothing. The object was there, and the next moment, the object was here," she said, pointing at two spots on her desk. "We thought it was seismic activity at first but there hasn't been any unusual activity in the area."

"Do you know if anyone working here has a young daughter? Ten to thirteen years old?"

"Ahhh. I have no idea."

"I'll need to get that information. Has the activity increased? Changed?"

"The activity has been ramping up over the last few weeks. Toilet paper strewn around the rest rooms, soap dispensers empted, rugs moved… the list grows every day. It's starting to get dangerous for the staff. We called in a Miwok practitioner who conducted a beautiful cleansing ceremony but it did nothing but freshen the air."

"My friend Caleb, who called me about the job, he mentioned you called in some ghost hunters?"

"Please, Paranomal and Anomalous Researchers. They came after the new age mystic our receptionist called in." Opening her desk drawer, she held out a handful of crystals. "We're still finding these in the most unlikely places. At least he worked pro bono." The crystals went back in the drawer, and a neatly bound, glossy covered report was handed to him. "The PAR group set up equipment every night for a week, but found nothing more than what they called a 'cold spot' in one of the galleries."

"I'll have you show that to me in a few minutes." He flipped through the report for a moment. "Did they charge you?"

"They sent an invoice, certainly, but they also 'leaked' their presence to the local newspaper after agreeing to confidentiality. We deducted what we thought was a fair estimate for the free advertising the story provided and sent them an invoice for a dollar." She handed him a newspaper clipping from the Stockton Record and looked up. "Are you a native of California?"

"No, ma'am, um, Vickie, I'm not. Kansan."

She breathed a sigh of relief. "Virginian. I'm not sure I'll ever get used to this state. The press had a field day with the so-called paranormal researchers, but apparently found the Miwok ceremony and the mystic perfectly normal. We almost had to close our doors for a few days until the fervor died down." She accepted the article back and filed it again. "However, a friend of mine knows someone, who knows someone, and well, you must know how these things go. I heard from your friend Caleb two weeks later and here you are. Tell me, Dean, what is it that you are going to do?"

"First, I'm not going to talk to a newspaper. I'm a big believer in flying under the radar."

"And payment in cash upon completion. I appreciate the straightforwardness. What will you need to do your work?"

"Unsupervised access to the museum after hours. Trust me, for what I do, I don't need civilians in my way. I'll need to know exactly when this started, an inventory of what displays have changed, moved, been added to… recent acquisitions, records of any construction around the property. I'd like to see the room with the cold spot and talk to whoever is the most knowledgeable on the displays there." He looked up from the report. "Some things might get broken. Just 'cause I'm here, doesn't mean I did it. I don't want to get an invoice from you."

"Fine. Do you need to set up equipment?"

"I'll do anything I need to tonight."

"Do you know what is causing this?"

"Right now, I'd say you have a poltergeist. That's why I asked about girls ten to thirteen. You don't have to have a teenage girl to have a poltergeist but they seem to generate 'em sometimes. The cold spot sounds like an angry spirit, but I'm going to rule out poltergeist first."

It felt like the air in the room dropped a few degrees. Her friendly demeanor had turned arctic. She stared at him unblinking for a few moments. "You're another ghost hunter. I've already had ghost hunters in here. What," she closed her eyes and took a deep breath, "What are you going to do, Mr. Winchester, that hasn't been done before?"

He smiled broadly. "Succeed. Do we have an agreement?"

She looked up at him, and bit her lower lip. "Agreed."

This job was looking better and better. Mrs. Barkley had thawed and walked him out to find Ms. Anderson.

"Give him a tour of the silver room, Em, and get him anything he needs. We'll need to clear out the museum tonight. Let the security company know." She waved as she walked back to her office. "I'm sure you'll think of all the things I forgot."

Dean turned a blinding smile on Ms. Anderson.

"I'd love a tour."

She blushed again but started off at a brisk walk. "Mrs. Barkley said you were here about the, um, occurrences. The silver room hasn't been the center of the activity by any means."

"Vickie said that the room had a cold spot? I'd like to see that first." He slipped the EMF meter out of his pocket, flipped it on, and set the earpiece in his left ear.

She was sneaking looks toward him. "Is that music?"

He showed her the EMF. "No, this reacts to electro…"

"Electromagnetic frequencies?"

"Yeah, how did, oh, the ghost hunters talk about it? Tweedledum and Tweedledee?"

She laughed and nodded. "Theirs was more, well, professional looking."

"They all work the same. You just have to know how to use it." They walked into a display room and the EMF let out a deafening wail.

"Yahtzee." Tugging out the earbud, he gazed in awe at the EMF. "Can you show me the cold spot?"

The room wasn't large, maybe ten by fifteen feet, but with the overhead lighting dimmed, the walls seemed to disappear in shadow, while the brilliantly lit display cases seemed to float against the dark wood walls.

"We have silver from almost every era. Pioneers came to California from all areas of the world, for centuries. The oldest silver we have was brought by Spanish Don's during the subjugation and colonization of Mexico and California." She walked toward a display. "Some of the hallmarks on these pieces date them to the seventeenth century. This piece of Rodriguez Sanguino Sebastian silver was made in Jerez de los Caballeros around 1735."

Dean dutifully looked. Silver. "Where's the cold spot?"

Em ignored him and turned to another display. "This case has silver from the American pioneers moving West both before, during, and after the Gold Rush of 1849. Most of these pieces are English and German. It was amazing to find out how many women carried their ancestral silver through the hardships of a cross county wagon trip from the East Coast."

"Hmmm." More silver. "The cold spot?"

Em started to laugh. "Sorry, I get carried away. I wrote my doctoral thesis… it doesn't matter. The cold spot is here, in front of the Taxco silver."

He stepped forward and found it. Definitely cold. The lights on the EMF were strobing. He pulled out the earphone jack and the squeal filled the room before he turned the meter off. "Tell me about Taxco." He looked in the cabinet. "Not many forks and knives in there. For a display of silver."

"True, but this isn't a display of pioneer imported silver. This is a display of silver designed by William Spratling and his apprentices. The pieces date from the 1930's."

Dean turned and surveyed the room. "Have the displays been changed recently?"

"No, not changed. But we did just add a piece to the Taxco collection."

"How long ago?"

"Three months, almost to the day." She pointed at a pedestal standing to one side of the cabinet. "This bust of Spratling is sterling silver. It belonged to a local collector who met Spratling in the forties. Mrs. Gunderson remained close friends with him ntil he died in 1967. She donated almost all the Taxco pieces we have. There's a picture of her right there on the wall. The next picture is Mrs. Gunderson and Mr Spratling. When she died, we outbid the Museo Guillermo Spratling for it. This bust is a copy of the original already in their collection, so we felt we weren't depriving the citizens of Taxco by keeping it in the US."

Circling the bust, Dean asked. "Didn't the occurrences start three months ago?"

"Well, yes, but they couldn't be related."

"Tell me everything you know about William Spratling. Over coffee?"

"There's a Starbucks around the corner, but the Court House Café is across the street."

"Definitely the Café. I missed lunch."

She checked her watch. "Forget the Café. If you want lunch, Casa Flores next door. The fish tacos are to die for. Wait right here while I get my purse."

The fish tacos were—spectacular. So was dinner at Valley Brew after he spent the afternoon reviewing the museum records. The coffee at her place after dinner was probably good, but she was better. Much better. Later, after a shower, she watched him dress.

"Do you have to go tonight?"

"Best time for my line of work."

"I can't believe you're a ghost hunter."

"Hunter, Em, hunter." She padded to the kitchen and brought back a steaming mug of coffee. He sniffed appreciatively and gulped down half of it before kissing her and heading for the door. "I'll see you in the morning."

The drive back to the museum was uneventful and for once, he was able to park right by the staff entrance to load his duffel. Paying gigs had their perks. The door opened easily with the key and ID Em had given him, and the alarm system disarmed itself when he entered the code. Once in the museum security office, he turned on the lights, another perk, and turned off the alarms and sensors in the galleries before walking through to the lobby, shotgun in hand.

The EMT screamed again. This was feeling more and more like an angry spirit, but he'd brought the wards for a poltergeist, and first set about installing them in different rooms in the museum. Nothing moved or groaned or tapped as he worked, which convinced him that he was dealing with an angry spirit since poltergeists were usually pissed off when you did this part. Still, he was cautious when he entered the silver room to deposit the final ward behind the Taxco silver cabinet.

Breathing out in relief when nothing happened, he approached the bust and tapped on the glass case surrounding it. "Okay, ghostey, come on out. I'm going to take the head. I'm going to break the glass. Ollie ollie oxen free." The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and his breath turned white. His trigger finger automatically tightened as he slowly turned.

It was Mrs. Gunderson, dressed for a party, exactly as she was in the photo on the wall behind him. She flickered and appeared directly in front of him.

"Bill? Is that you?" She reached for him. "I've missed you so much. Taxco was so long ago."

"Not him." The sound of the shotgun thundered in the small room. He cocked the gun again and started to back out the door. Now that he knew who it was, he knew what to do. Next step, salt and burn, and this job was done.

His breath went white again. She was fast. He spun and found himself face to face with… a man? Another spirit?

"Senor Spratling? Guillermo?"

Another shot, another cloud of salt, and a reload. Two spirits, and damn if they both didn't think he was the silver guy, Spratling. As Dean stepped out of the room and toward the lobby, both spirits materialized in the doorway, both gesturing, and both calling to him. He blew them to shreds, and backed up. They materialized almost instantly, facing each other.

Mrs. Gunderson screamed, "You! You gigolo."

"'Ramera!"

"What are you doing near Bill? Haven't you done enough?"

"¡Yo lo amaba, bitch! ¿No fue de esto que él le llamó? Bitch?"

"Only when you were around." She flickered and suddenly was there/here, right next to Dean, radiating cold off in waves. "Bill is here to see me!" She reached for him, still focused on the male spirit. "Aren't you, my darling?"

Dean took a step toward the lobby, which was enough to bring their full attention back on him. He had just enough time to realize that that was going to be a very bad thing before he was thrown backwards, slamming onto his back, spinning and skidding until he finally ran head and shoulders into the reception desk.

He held his breath, gun trained. The spirits didn't reappear. The air huffed out of him in relief. Man, he got out of that in one piece. He started to get up, but stopped to hold his head, eyes closed, while the room spun around him. There was plenty of time to toast Gunderson's body tonight. The man would have to wait until tomorrow.

He heard something. A ping. He opened his eyes just as he heard the ping again, then a third time, and watched a bolt and washer hit the floor and bounce toward him. There was a low groaning sound. More bolts fell.

He looked up. The mobile ripped from the ceiling and fell with a shriek of metal and a cloud of plaster dust. And he was dead center beneath it.

Oh, hell.

Properly translated Spanish:

Ramera = whore
¡Yo lo amaba, bitch! ¿No fue de esto que él le llamó? Bitch? = I loved him, you bitch! Isn't that what he called you?, bitch?