So, "sacred tree." Turns out, it's the town's good luck charm, the source of all their creepy rituals, and probably the reason their corn is freakishly tall. Half a century ago, the town was having… farming problems. Think Grapes of Wrath, but with more demons.
Then, some "wise man" (probably a con artist selling magical miracle-grow) told them to start worshipping this tree. And, because common sense is apparently illegal in Burkesville, they started sacrificing young couples to it. Bingo! Bumper crops! Who needs fertilizer when you have human sacrifices?
"So, we just find this tree and, uh, make it very, very unhappy, right?" Roger asked, clarifying the plan.
"Yep, that's what my exhaustive research – aka, listening to terrified townies – tells me," Dean said, leading the way. He's like the Indiana Jones of dysfunctional small towns.
Behind him were Sam, looking like he was about to have a nervous breakdown, and the rescued girl, clinging to Sam like he was the last helicopter out of Saigon. Dark forest, creepy scarecrow… she was definitely not having a good time.
They walked through the woods in the dark. Luckily, Dean had been here before in the daylight, because this guy had the memory of a supercomputer crossed with a squirrel (he remembered where he buried all the nuts… and all the trauma).
"It should be right up ahead," Dean announced. "The biggest tree. That's their 'sacred tree.' The scarecrows are just, like, the farm's security guards. The tree is the VIP, the big cheese, the evil mastermind we gotta barbecue."
Roger, for some reason, felt a sudden, intense feeling that this was about to go horribly, hilariously wrong. Probably because, after burning that scarecrow with his awesome fire-enhanced cigarette (he was definitely going to tell that story at parties), he'd gotten almost no evil-points.
Which meant… the scarecrow was just the opening act. The tree? That was the main boss. The one with the ridiculously high health bar.
"Excuse me, boys, but you're not going anywhere near that tree," a voice said from the darkness. And out stepped… a bunch of old guys with guns. Definitely not the Expendables.
These were the town's bigwigs, the farm owners, the guys who decided who got to be "one with the earth" (aka, scarecrow snacks). Two lives for a year of perfect produce? Sounds like a bargain! (Capitalism! It's a real peach.)
They'd gotten… creative… with their sacrifices. Like that couple Dean rescued? They'd just messed with their car. Nighttime, broken-down car, creepy scarecrow… problem solved! Much less messy than, you know, actual ropes and altars.
Except Dean, with his meddling and his salt-loaded shotgun (because who needs regular bullets?), had screwed it all up.
"Put down your weapons, son," one of the old guys said, sounding like he was trying to reason with a particularly stubborn goat. "I don't want to hurt you." (He totally wanted to hurt him.)
"Aunt Carol? Why?" the rescued girl cried, because of course one of the gun-toting geriatrics was her aunt. Family!
"Don't shoot! We'll cooperate!" Sam shouted, raising his hands and very slowly putting down his gun. Dean followed suit, because getting shot is generally a bad idea.
In this country, when someone points a gun at you, you listen. Because they might actually shoot you. And not with rock salt.
"What do we do now, Mr. Roger?" Sam whispered, because Roger was the "expert" (Sam's word, not Roger's). He was clearly hoping for some secret demon-hunter magic.
Roger could have gone full Ghost Rider. Bullets? He'd sneeze at bullets. But Dean and the others? They'd be toast. Figuratively and literally.
"Call me 'Jay-bro'," Roger whispered back. "And just play along. Backup's on the way."
"Backup?" Sam looked confused.
Roger's eyes, which had subtly shifted from normal human eyes to slightly glowing yellow things (because why not?), were focused past the old guys. He'd been practicing. Partial transformations! It's like flexing a muscle, but instead of getting bigger muscles, you get… glowing eyes. It saved energy and didn't scare the crap out of everyone. (Except demons. They were encouraged to be scared.)
With his super-powered demon-vision, he could see them: a whole army of scarecrows, shambling out of the darkness. And more were being created, right now, at a nearby farm, by some invisible creepy fog. It was like a scarecrow factory, but with more… impending doom.
"You guys might wanna, you know, turn around," Roger suggested. "Your… 'god' is making a house call."
The old guys, understandably, were starting to freak. The bugs had stopped chirping. The birds had stopped singing. Everything was silent. Except for this… shuffling sound.
Shff… shff… shff…
It sounded like… straw. A whole lot of straw.
The old guys, hands trembling, swung their flashlights around. And there they were. Scarecrows. Lots of them.
"S-scarecrows…!" one of the old guys stuttered, his teeth chattering like he was auditioning for a Riverdance competition.
They'd known about the scarecrows, sure. They'd fed them, for crying out loud. But seeing them? That was a whole different level of pants-wetting terror.
The scarecrows didn't care about "feeding time" or "sacred rituals." They just started… hooking.
BANG! One of the old guys panicked and fired. Then the others started shooting, too.
The bullets ripped through the straw… and revealed the bones underneath. The bones of the previous sacrifices. Because even evil scarecrows believe in recycling.
The gunfire was deafening. The farmers, suddenly realizing that shooting at animated straw men filled with the bones of their victims was not a winning strategy, stopped being polite to their "gods."
But the scarecrows weren't exactly bulletproof. The bullets just… slowed them down. A little. They'd stumble, then get right back up, like they were in a really bad, low-budget zombie flick.
One of the old guys ran out of bullets. Click. Worst. Sound. Ever.
A scarecrow grabbed him, that rusty hook sinking into his neck, and dragged him, screaming, into the darkness. (Note to self: bring extra ammo to demon fights.)
"Aaaaargh!" Another farmer, also out of bullets, threw his gun down and ran, screaming, back the way they'd come.
The others followed, because "running away" is always better than "becoming a scarecrow's lunch."
That left our four heroes. Sam, ever the practical one, grabbed the dropped salt-shotgun.
"Mr. Roger… Jay-bro… what do we do now?"
"Relax. Those old geezers are surrounded. They're not going anywhere," he said referring to the farmers.
Dean nearly face-planted. "That's... that's not what he meant, Roger! He meant, what about us?"
"Oh, that? Easy-peasy. We just gotta chop down that big ol' tree. Dean, you said you know where it is?"
"It's right up ahead—" Dean yelled, pointing.
"Then leave it to me! You guys just try not to get murdered," Roger said as he pulled out the big guns: his Arnold Schwarzenegger-approved shotgun. And, because why not, he gave it a little Hellfire upgrade.
BANG!
Roger fired. Fire met straw. It was a beautiful, terrifying thing. A whole wave of scarecrows went down like… well, like flaming scarecrows.
It was either that these scarecrows were seriously underpowered, or Roger's Hellfire-infused shotgun was way overpowered. Either way, it was a massacre. A very flammable massacre.
Sam stared at his own salt-loaded shotgun, then at the scarecrows he'd shot. They'd fall down, wobble around like drunk toddlers, then get back up. He was starting to think his shotgun was filled with confetti, not buckshot. "Uh, Dean? I think my gun's broken."
"Sam, fire!" Dean yelled, grabbing a burning branch (courtesy of Roger's pyrotechnics) and waving it around like a demented conductor.
Any scarecrow that got even a whiff of the flame went up like a tinderbox. Apparently, demonic straw is highly flammable. Who knew?
"You guys hold them off! I'll be right back!" Roger shouted, then sprinted towards the sacred tree.
He had to hurry, before they were completely overrun by the seemingly endless supply of scarecrows. It was like the tree was a vending machine dispensing straw-stuffed nightmares.
Running and gunning, Roger blasted a path through the scarecrows. As he got closer to the tree (aka, the evil tree-witch), the creepy, invisible fog got thicker and thicker.
The tree, probably sensing that Roger's shotgun was not filled with fertilizer, started shaking. The scarecrows, instead of their usual leisurely shamble, started sprinting at Roger. It was like a zombie marathon, but with more straw.
The first one grabbed Roger's arm. Suicide mission. The second one went for his head. The rest piled on, grabbing his waist, legs, and…
"Hey! Hey! Watch the hands, buddy!" Roger yelled, looking down at the scarecrow that had gotten a little too friendly.
Enough was enough. Time for the main event. Ghost Rider, transform!
Roger's skin started to crack, smoke and flames pouring out. He looked like a human volcano.
The pile of scarecrows on top of him instantly turned into a giant bonfire. Roasted scarecrow, anyone?
With the minor obstacle of the scarecrow army removed, Roger charged at the sacred tree, the tree-witch, the root of all evil (pun intended).
And then… he saw it.
The tree-witch, probably realizing that summoning an endless supply of straw goons wasn't working, had decided to… run away. It had uprooted itself and was lumbering off.
Trees are supposed to stay put. It's, like, their thing. But this tree-witch? Nope. It was going for a stroll. A very panicked stroll.
It tried to swat Roger with a branch.
Roger pulled out a katana (because why not?), infused it with Hellfire (because obviously), and sliced the branch clean off.
"Uh… so, trees don't have eyes, do they?" Roger muttered.
He'd been planning to use his Penance Stare to, you know, reap the tree's soul. But… no eyes. This was awkward. He could still use Hellfire, sure, but that wouldn't give him nearly as many evil-points. It was like getting paid in pennies instead of dollars.
The Hellfire from the cut branch started spreading, burning the tree from the inside out. The tree couldn't put it out.
So, it did the logical thing: it ripped off its own burning trunk and ran away. Again. On its roots.
Running? From bullets?
BANG!
Roger, with a sigh, fired a super-charged, Hellfire-infused shotgun blast.
The blast hit the tree-witch dead center. Hellfire erupted, spreading instantly, engulfing the whole thing. The tree-witch "screamed" silently (because trees don't have vocal cords), the unseen black fog billowing into the sky.
In a few moments, it was just a charred husk.
"Seriously? That's it? I was expecting, like, a final form or something," Roger said, approaching cautiously.
He was expecting a dramatic final stand, a desperate last-ditch attack. He didn't get that. He poked it with his foot. Nothing. Definitely dead.
Then, Roger's eyes lit up. In the Far East, there was this super rare wood, something-something wood, that was amazing for exorcisms. And it was worth a fortune.
Lightning-struck wood was valuable, right? Well, Hellfire-burned wood? Probably even better. And this wasn't just any wood. This was evil, people-eating tree wood!
He got to work. He pocketed the charred remains of the trunk (souvenir!), then pulled out a shovel (because he's always prepared) and started digging up the soil around the tree.
The soil looked normal, but it had been soaking up evil tree-juice for decades. It had to be worth something. Waste not, want not.
He was happily shoveling away when he heard footsteps. He reluctantly put his tools away. Couldn't let the rookies see him acting like a grave robber.
"Uh… Jay-bro? Did you… get it?" Sam asked, looking around.
All he saw was scorched earth. No giant, evil tree. No nothing.
"Oh, yeah," Roger said, casually. "That evil tree? Turned to ash. Problem solved. Let's get out of here."
Dean, ever the suspicious one, looked around, a puzzled expression on his face. Something felt… off.
But then he remembered the scarecrows. How they'd suddenly just… stopped. Like someone had flipped a switch. The tree had to be gone.
They walked for a bit and found a body. One of the fleeing farmers. Karma's a witch.
"Without the scarecrows, I wonder if this town will survive," Dean mused.
Roger rolled his eyes. "Dude, it's the 21st century. Farms are, like, industrialized now. This town was stuck in the Dark Ages. And this country has more land than it knows what to do with. They'll just move somewhere else and start over…"
Dean had no comeback. Roger was right. Modern farming was all about science, not… well, that.
They got back to their cars. Dean said he needed to get his own car.
So, the rescued girl went with Dean, and Sam ended up riding with Roger.
Roger could tell. The kid had something on his mind.
"Spit it out, kid. You're about as subtle as a brick to the face. Even your brother noticed. That's why he sent you with me."
Sam blushed and scratched his head. "Well… Jay-bro… I wanted to ask… how do I use the power inside me… for exorcisms?