Dean and Sam stalked quietly through the dim woods, machetes drawn.

The last vamp standing had broken in fear, darted out the back door of the farmhouse where the Nest had been holed up. They had plunged out after him, determined to kill him before he had a chance to escape. One living vamp meant the possibility - almost certainty - of a new Nest being formed. They couldn't allow that. A new Nest meant more dead people.

They moved between the trees, a hundred yards apart, senses on high alert. Dean was coming up on a small clearing, which brought with it the knowledge that it was an excellent spot for an ambush. He slowed. Sam backed toward him, scanning the twilight for any movement, machete at the ready. Dean stopped, waited. Sam sheathed the machete as he joined him, shaking his head.

"Gone," he said quietly.

"Goddammit!" Dean hissed. He eyed the clearing ahead of them narrowly. He glanced at Sam, jerked his head at it, lifted his eyebrows. Sam squinted, thought a moment, then nodded agreement. They moved together to the clearing, Dean scanning constantly to the left, Sam focusing to the right.

When they made it in, they stopped and stood a few minutes, on edge, alert for any indication the vamp was there. Nothing. No strange quick shadow sliding between or behind the trees. Just deepening gloom as the twilight faded toward darkness. Dean sat with a sigh on the huge boulder beside a tree. He sheathed his own machete with a slither and a clang, ran his hand across the nape of his neck, and blew his breath out loudly.

"Well, shit."

Sam had pulled out his flashlight, and paced the perimeter of the clearing, shining the light out between the trees and peering. A path bisected the clearing; he squinted down the part closest to him, then continued on. Then he stopped abruptly, shone the light on something close, and said, "Hunh. Dean. Take a look at this." Dean shot him a curious look, then got up and sauntered over.

The light shone on a signpost. The post had a sign with elegant calligraphy, neat and clearly legible, fastened with rustic iron nails.

"'The Forest of Coincidence'," he read out loud. "Really? This rag tag woods has a title? Jeez. They'll give anything a name these days."

Sam was still peering closely, examining the front and back of the sign with curiosity. Finally, he grimaced and shrugged. "Yeah, guess you're right. It's just...odd."

"Yeah, well, our lives are filled with 'odd', Sammy. Looks like our vamp gave us the slip. Time to head back, get us something to eat, and sack up for the night. Coming?"

Sam stood up, started to join him, when a sudden sound made them both freeze.

Bells. Small bells, jingling lightly, rhythmically, like footsteps. They drew back, side by side, unlimbered their weapons, and waited. The jingling came closer, down the path to the clearing. Sam focused his flashlight there.

A tall man walked into the light. He wore colorful clothes and a motley hat that sported small bells and a bright red pompon of yarn drooping off the side. He carried a pole; the pole was topped with a clown head and ribbons ending in yet more jingling bells.

Sam's eyes widened; his jaw clenched spastically. He shuddered and drew closer to Dean, but kept the flashlight aimed at the man.

The man stepped forward into the clearing, stopped, and struck a pose, pole planted firmly in the ground to his side.

Then he began singing.