Free Witch's Canyon by Jeff Mariotte Page B

minutes of wandering, bending over, sometimes scraping off snow that had started to accumulate on headstones, to determine.
    The second one was behind a Catholic church. A priest looked at them from inside, so they tried their best to appear solemn and respectful as they perused the graves. It was cold enough that Sam pulled up the hood of the sweatshirt he wore under a canvas jacket. Dean had a leather coat on, no hat, but in the pockets were gloves that he tugged onto his hands.
    Some of the graves here were older. They found a 80 SUPERNATURAL

few from the 1890s, but none that could be identifi ed as belonging to military people, and none that suggested unquiet rest, either visually or on their EMF reader.
    “One more to go,” Sam said when they were back in the car.
    “Yeah, this was a great freakin’ idea,” Dean complained. “Freezin’ our asses off out there in the snow.
    I see dead people.”
    “We’re looking for a dead guy!”
    “I know. I just . . . I don’t like the snow, okay? I mean, snow’s cool and all, but I like it better when I’m inside with a hot toddy and a roaring fi re.”
    “I don’t think I’ve ever had a hot toddy,” Sam said.
    “I don’t even think I know what’s in it.”
    “I don’t, either,” Dean said. “But I like the idea of it more than I like the idea of losing a toe to frostbite.”
    “We’re not going to lose any toes, Dean.” The route to the third cemetery took them through what passed for a residential neighborhood in Cedar Wells, a couple of blocks off Main Street. The houses were old, mostly wood and brick, with snow covering their slanted roofs and fenced yards. Smoke wafted from a few chimneys, scenting the air and sending gray curls skyward. Snow gathered on the road, except where tires had carved through it, making black streaks that looked like miniature roads themselves, viewed from the clouds.
    Dean slowed, fighting the Impala’s desire to fi shtail into a parked truck. “You’d think a town like this would have snowplows.”
    “They probably have a snowplow,” Sam said.
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    “And they’re probably using it to keep Main Street clear. And maybe Grand Avenue.”
    “All three blocks of it.”
    “Hey, it’s a small town.”
    “Which is gonna get a lot smaller if we don’t fi nd this spirit.” The more time that passed, the more possibility that other people were dying. Dean hated that possibility, and while he didn’t want to snap at his brother, anger pushed itself to the surface.
    Besides, what good was having a brother if you couldn’t snap at him once in a while?
    “Dean!” Sam grabbed Dean’s sleeve, startling him.
    He twisted the wheel to his right, started to slide on wet slushy pavement, corrected to the left. The Impala shuddered but maintained course.
    “Don’t do that, Sam.”
    “Dean, look!”
    Sam pointed to a house up the street, about a quarter of a block away. From the road they could see a screened-in porch in front of the door, three stairs up from the street.
    Emerging from the door was a big, dark bulk. The wrong shape to be a person. “What the hell . . . ?” Dean stopped in the middle of the lane, watching.
    A black bear nosed out the screen door as if sniff-ing the air. Apparently finding it to his liking, he pawed it out of the way and dropped to all fours to descend the stairs. Rump swaying, he crossed the snowy yard and headed for the woods behind the house. The screen door, on a spring, slammed closed behind him.
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    “A bear just came out of that house,” Dean said.
    “Maybe he lives there.”
    “Like what? A circus bear? I don’t think—”
    “I’m kidding. Come on, we’d better check the place out.”
    “Gee, you think?” Dean pulled the car awkwardly toward the curb and got out. Sam was out his door before the vehicle stopped moving. Dean caught up to him as they reached the steps. The air smelled like bear—or like animal, anyway, since Dean wasn’t too