Title: Feathers of the Goddesses
Rating: T-M
Author: Quicksliver
Parings: Sam/OC, Dean/OC
Summary: On a seemingly routine hunt gone wrong, Dean meets a couple of girls with a certian familiarity with the supernatural, Sam comes along later and immediately suspects them. One has a secret, the other is her best friend. Can the brothers trust these two as Dean insists, or will the Winchester instincts prevent them from the chance of a lifetime?
A/N:Ok, so I know it's been done plenty times before, but this idea struck me while my parents were in Mexico and I was at my grandparents for the week. I was sick the entire time, and my grandma kept on trying to get me to eat and accusing me of being melodramatic. 'I'm a WRITER! It's my JOB!' I almost yelled, but I restrained myself. I wasn't being dramatic, believe me. Anyway, I was staring out the window when I saw A guy who looked horribly like Dean, with this girl from down the street. When I was staring fixedly at their backs, praying he would turn around, I saw she had a tattoo of a keyhole with wings sprouting from it. Immediately my muse, who has no respect for my physical pains, punched the creative side of my brain, and a chapter was born. Not the first chapter mind you, but one that'll probably be at the end. Then I abandoned it, and then my Beta/friend Kat inspired me, then I got ANOTHER beta who's doing a VERYYY good job of encouraging me. Please give this story a chance.

The crescent moon shone high above Oak Hills Cemetery, casting shadowy reflections on the still lake of monuments and mausoleums that had stood for ages by its side. The quiet was unbroken, a mantle of silence to respect the dead, until the soft purr of a black car pulling up the drive filled the night. Headlights cast eerie shadows over the grass, invisible movements captured in bright light.

Dean Winchester had always privately believed that cemeteries were wasted on the dead. A place so neat and peaceful, given to people who couldn't appreciate it anymore then they could enjoy eating and breathing. Not that most people enjoyed those things enough daily, but still.

He drove the Impala up the winding path, stopping in front of the small church that oversaw everything. The steeples rose into the air, inlayed with carvings of life and hope in black iron. It was something ease the minds of people putting their loved ones into the ground.

He sat in the car and let her idle, watching the double doors of the church with typical Winchester caution. His sharp green eyes shone brilliantly when a light outside the chapel flicked on, reveling a man standing at the door. He nodded to Dean somberly, holding two flashlights and a shovel.

Dean opened the car door, swinging his leg out and ducking his head to keep it from hitting the roof. He didn't react to the silence, thinking of the shame he would feel if he was the one to break it. This job wasn't good news. A vengeful spirit in a place like this? Stepford South Carolina was pretty picturesque. Good people, great burgers, cute girls…

'Ha ha…Stepford. Keep an eye out for robots Dean-O' A smile played over his face.

He walked around the back of his baby, opening the trunk pushing up the second flap, he propped it up with a crowbar and took out his sawed off rifle, a shovel, and a pack of rock salt. The rifle's familiar weight was comfortable in his hand, almost like an old friend. He briefly wondered if that's how crack addicts felt about their next hit, and smiled at this connection. That's right; he was a hunt-whore.

The eldest Winchester slammed the trunk shut, and the sound bounced around the eternal home of the dead with a seemingly endless echo. He winced, walking back over to the drivers' side of the car and turning it off, the headlights dimming automatically and leaving the two men in the muted darkness. He closed the door in much the same way as he had the trunk. A nearby crow cried out at the shock of being awakened.

He turned to the man with the flashlights, shrugging off his denim jacket and tossing it through the window of the impala so he was wearing the white t-shirt that he'd…Borrowed from old navy awhile back.

"So. Where we headed to reverend?" He asked softly, sticking the package of rock salt into his pocket and looking at the man like this was the most normal thing in the world, meeting in a cemetery to desecrate a grave in the middle of the night. Reverend Greg Miller, young for his profession and out of typical dress, shivered in the cold. He had light blonde hair and dark brown eyes, the face of a collage kid. He obviously worked out, his arms were thick and corded, and he seemed to be in a career unfit for him. But who was Dean to judge?

When Greg spoke it was with a soft voice, a typical tinge of southern drawl barely audible. He seemed shy to be doing something that was so wrong, against what he believed in.

"Not too far." He hoisted the shovel over his shoulder and started walking up a well-kept driving path so people could get to the far-reaching graves, and Dean fallowed. "I'm surprised you came. I thought…" He paused and looked to the black asphalt, trudging towards a group of trees that seemed to be less cared for then the rest of the cemetery. The trees were tall and sparse, and looked pretty old.

"I'd call you crazy and hang up?" Dean smirked and looked ahead, catching up with the 'man of god' and walking side by side. Greg smiled sheepishly and nodded, his eyes still lowered. Dean glanced at him and chuckled. "Dude, I do this for a living. I was more surprised that a 'religious leader' was calling me about a spirit then about the fact it was two in the morning."

Rev. Miller laughed at that, and then stopped before the group of trees. Closer up, Dean noticed that interspersed with them were old graves. Some had writing so faded he could barely make out the inscriptions, while others were cracked and listing to the side, gray marble and slabs of granite.

"It's the old cemetery. Elm Street used to run right through here, but when they expanded the cemetery they demolished it. This little patch was Elm street cemetery." The younger man grinned in amusement, looking at Dean, who laughed slightly.

"Freddy Krueger eat your heart out." He said, a vision in his head of the infamous killer wandering around this little patch of land, his disfigured face turned up in a cunning smile. Dean loved that movie.

"So who exactly is this ghost? And how did you get my number?" Dean watched the reverend start walking again and fallowed slowly, watching his companion glance different tombstones as he searched for a particular one.

"His name was Frank Austin." Greg stopped before possibly the oldest tombstone there, and nodded. He placed the flashlights on the top of the cracked marble, and it was leaning over so far that the bright beams shone on the ground where, six feet under, the body of Frankie lay, ready to be salted and torched. The younger man shoved the tip of his shovel into the hard earth, dead grass surrounding the grave. Dean fallowed suit, and the two of them dug for a moment before the dark-eyed man continued. "He was a murderer, killed at least nine women. All of them were blonde, smart girls too. He was around about 10 years ago; apparently he committed suicide just before the cops caught him. They stuck him here because it was the oldest and most decrepit cemetery there was in the area." He paused and wiped his forehead with his sleeve, then went back to digging with a grunt. "About a month ago, blonde girls started going missing from the university. All were top of their class; most were headed for big things. No one thought anything about it, until their bodies turned up in the river."

Dean cut in, grunting with effort as their hole got deeper. "And that's when you called me?"

Greg shook his head.

"Not quite. I did some research first and found out about good 'ole Frank. Then I called you. A friend of mine from Virginia told me about this guy. Someone who worked with stuff like this. I got a voice message that told me to call you." He grimaced and edged the shovel around a rock, then threw it over the lip of the grave.

"John Winchester?" Dean questioned, pausing and looking at him skeptically. Greg continued digging, beads of sweat running down his face a dripping of his nose. He had taken his jacket off and thrown it over beside a tree three dirt clods ago. They were sinking slowly deeper into the hole, their feet unsteady on the loosening soil.

"Yeah. Your dad I guess. His voicemail told me to call his son Dean if it was an emergency. So I did." He threw another shovel full over his shoulder, his quiet voice barely audible over the scraping of earth and their heavy breathing. "I was told you guys were the next best thing to your dad by my contact, so I went ahead and gave you a ring."

The smell of overturned earth was somehow comforting to Dean. He had grown up digging up bodies, killing and burning things, so smells that most people would fear made Dean feel…alive somehow. Earth, gunpowder, and most recently, blood. It scared him that the smell of blood set his nerve endings on fire, that his senses seemed to strengthen when he knew there was someone hurt.

There was a muffled thump on his next attempt to go deeper, and the two men looked at each other knowingly. Greg seemed to be shaking as they cleared off the last inch of dirt.

"Alright." Dean spoke softly, eyes fixed on the decaying box. "Looks like Frankie got a cheap-ass coffin." The laughter in his voice was muted, mostly because he knew the priest wouldn't appreciate his humor. He looked up and watched as Greg lifted himself out of the grave he that had just helped to dig. The guy was as pale as a ghost, and he grabbed the flashlights and helpfully shone them on the coffin. The dark outline of trees and statues was barely visible in the darkness.

In the dim yellow glow of the flashlights, the hunter leaned over and lifted the edge of the coffin. He flung it open, immediately regretting leaving his gun on the ground near the tombstone.

The coffin, lined with inexpensive green linen and rotted near the foot, was empty.

Dean's head shot up as he heard a short cry from above, and a moment later the flashlights were out. He swore loudly and scrambled out of the pit, his knees sinking into the packed clay. He pulled himself out and began desperately groping along Franks slab for the familiar feel of wooden handle and cold metal.

"Revered?" He called out quietly, accepting that no matter how much he searched, he wasn't going to find his gun. He swore again under his breath, and his eyes widened as he a coppery smell met him.

Immediately his eyes sharpened, and he crouched down next to the leaning headstone to make himself a smaller target. He sniffed again. Blood, he was sure of it. Probably poor Greg's. He hoped he was still alive; the reverend had been a cool guy.

Dean stayed crouched, praying internally that Sammy had decided not to take his own hunt and had fallowed him in a stolen minivan or something, anything but gone to Wisconsin to kill a black dog. The darkness was his friend in this case, hiding him from an attacker long enough to let him make a plan.

Or so he hoped.

There was a rustle behind him, and just as he turned around the rotted, gaping face of Frank Austin leaned close and smiled.

The last thing Dean Winchester remembered before passing out was a heavy tree branch swinging in a direct path to his temple, blinding pain, and then a sharp fire in his side.

He slumped to the side limply, blood trickling down his forehead and a bruise already forming around his eye as Frank stood above him, dead feet standing on the dead grass as the crow, re-awakened, called out chillingly into the night.