Sam and Dean had just finished interviewing a witch; she was the epitome of her kind: wrinkly skin, bad posture, creepy, long fingernails, and squinty, abnormally-colored eyes that could see straight into your soul. Sam had been the one thoroughly interviewing her; to anyone else, he would have seemed calm. But Dean knew Sam; he was slightly panicked whenever she looked at him, and that was the entire time. Dean had shot Sam a glance over her shoulder, silently asking if he was OK. Even though he already knew the answer.

The witch had spoken up right then. "You two seem to have a little tension in your relationship. Why don't you talk about your feelings more? Be a little closer?" she asked, raising one eyebrow and scanning over Sam's face. "I could help, you know," she rasped, leaning a little closer to Sam. Too close, thought Sam.

"Ah, ma'am, I think we're good. Thank you for allowing us to interview you. It was a pleasure," said Sam, still maintaining his polite appearance as he stood up. Sam gave the witch a half-smile, reluctantly shook her hand, and then motioned for Dean to go as well.

Sam and Dean had walked shoulder to shoulder back to the Impala. Not a word was spoken after the awkward, meddling words of the witch.

The drive back to their motel room was silent. Sam wondered if the witch was giving advice or actually going to "help" them. Dean was figuring out whether to kill her or not.

By the time they'd arrived at the motel, most of the tension in the air had dissipated. The boys headed their separate ways, sharing a silent nod. Dean takes his shower, and Sam sits down to ponder what the (although very nosy) genuinely concerned witch had been going on about. He wondered if she was another one of those people who had thought that he and Dean were together together, but put out that thought quickly, because hel-lo, she's a friggin' witch! Of course she knew they were actually brothers. She just chose not to say anything.

Dean came out of the bathroom, steam trailing behind him. "Have fun with your cold shower, bitch," grinned Dean, shucking on a pair of boxers and an old T-shirt.

"You little shit," laughed Sam, shoving Dean to the side. Dean stumbled a little, caught his balance with a wobbly foot, and chuckled to himself.

It was right after they'd killed the witch, right after she'd wiggled her fingers at Dean and cackled, that the curse started.

At first, nothing seemed out of place besides the obvious change of atmosphere. Like the sixth sense both of them had that something was wrong, but they'd have to wait and see what it was.

Then, it happened.