SpN: Wayfaring Stranger

[roxy]

Title: Wayfaring Stranger
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Silver John
Rating:R
Summary: Dean meets a man who's not a hunter, but he knows enough to help Dean help his brother.
Notes/Warnings: brief Sam/OFC
Cross over between Spn and Manly Wade Wellman's universe, the Silver John Novels
Word Count: 14697







"Dean. I'm getting tired of you--you shoving me away. Just spit it out, will you? Just say it."

"Say what, Sam? There's nothing to say. Get in the car."

"You know what—fuck *you* Dean. Fuck you and telling me what to do all the time."

Sam swung on his heels and walked right off the road, right into the woods like a fucking idiot. Dean grabbed the doorframe so hard, his knuckles popped. His breath sawed in and out of his nose, struggling for calm—for the breath to *be* calm. Sam…Goddamnit, Sam… "SAM."

He slammed his hand down on the roof of his car and winced, for the pop of pain in his hand and for the roof of the Impala. "Than *go*, Sam. Fucking….fucking shit." He threw himself back into the car and turned the key. She rumbled to life and growled to move and Dean cursed again. Let Sam find him for once….

He pulled off down the road.

Slow. Really slow.

But moving.



In Which Dean Searches For Sam
Dean hiked down a long, narrow trail. It was barely a trail, just a darker streak on the ground, scuffed through the moss and leaves. He whipped clinging branches out of his way as he pushed down the path, vines pulled at his legs, clung to his jeans and let go with little ripping pops. He'd been slogging through a thin slurry of mud and crumbled leaves for an hour now, just the kind of stuff to lend a nice slippery glaze to the soles of his boots. His hands were criss-crossed with thin slashes—came of grabbing onto the fucking whip-like branches to keep from sliding to his knees. Not entirely successful. The last thing he'd found kept him on this path—the only thing he'd found—a long, ragged, shred of Carhartt-brown canvas strung up in the wild roses. He squeezed the fabric in his fingers but he wasn't thinking about it, he was thinking about the time, and the chill rising fast in the air, and the coming dark….

He didn't mind tracking something through city streets, bricks and dirt and drunks he could handle. He happily tracked things across suburban lawns, through parks--people lied to themselves that they had a little slice of nature there, but they didn't. They had all-one-kind of tree, and feral cats and pigeons but. No. Nature was clear about not liking people. Or maybe just not liking Dean. He stopped, chill cramped hands clasping mud-soaked knees.

"Fuu-uck." He lifted one booted foot and shook it. It was freezing and the inside of the damn boot was full of greasy mud. "Laces," Dean said. "From now on, we add laces to the weapons check." Having a boot sucked off your foot in a half foot of ice-cold mud—not much fun. Nature fucking hated him. "I hate you right back," he grumbled.

There was a bit of clearing ahead on the trail, at what looked like an upward slope. Maybe he'd be able to get his bearings if this wilderness thinned out—the road couldn’t be too far way. Dean was pissed—at himself, for getting turned around when he should have *known* better, at Sam for taking off on him like a freaking PMSing little bitch—his fingers tightened convulsively on the fabric scrap—at the freaking weather, fuck, at life in general.

He pushed ahead, a little faster, running now. "Shit," he hissed. A wicked fat thorn, on a long cane of wild rose bush in the thicket he plunged through, opened a thin red line across his cheek, its barb hooking into the soft flesh. Bright vibrating pain flickered over his cheek--he swiped at it without much thought. That little sting didn't begin to compare to the widening ache behind his breastbone.

The chill amped up--he pulled the leather coat shut and flipped the collar up. It was getting colder, wetter, a painful, biting kind of damp. He was getting hungry and thirsty and Sam was out there in just that crappy shredded jacket, no lunch, nothing to drink either 'cause of that stupid fight and…Sam had been missing for five hours….



Sam stepped over a small stream, barely a rill of water over pebbles and rocks. The air was chilly; a wispy kind of fog rolled over the surface of the stream and threaded tendrils through the damp grass. The cuffs of his jeans were wicking up the damp, his toes growing cold in his boots. He stopped and looked around. He'd been damn sure the car was around here close. And where the hell was Dean? Sam felt a familiar tightening under his ribs and a frown worked its way up and tightened his mouth. Dean should have waited. Now he was out there probably as turned around as Sam and with their phones not working…"Damn it. Dean! *Dean*!" he yelled and nothing came back but a faint echo. He took another two or three steps forward and stopped again.

'Well, hello there, brave soldier-boy, come back from the war. Come looking for something? For someone?'

"H-hi." Sam stuttered. She was something else, this woman from out of nowhere. Sam blinked. But she wasn't out of nowhere. Sam realized he was in a yard, facing an old-fashioned kind of cabin, like some retro summer camp thing. There was a fat curl of white smoke coming from the chimney and a good, sweet, smell of burning wood. The lights at the window glowed gold, they shimmered—candles. He felt warm and cold at once looking at her. She smiled at him. Hair black as ink fell over her shoulders, her eyes glowed like sapphires. Her teeth gleamed white as snow, made whiter by her rose and tan cheeks. She was beautiful, so beautiful it made the breath catch in his throat.

She laughed and said again. 'Where've you come from soldier boy? Out here all by your lonesome.'

"I'm…I'm not a soldier," Sam said. It was an odd thing to say. He'd never been mistaken for a soldier before. Though maybe something of what they've been going through has made him look harder…"I'm looking for my brother. I lost him out here somewhere."

'Why don’t you come in and set a spell? I can see you're cold, and a big man like you've just got to be hungry. What say you eat and drink a little and then we'll set out together and search him out? I know all this land like the back of my hand—no body knows it better.'

"I—shouldn't," he said and a little chill rolled up his spine. "Maybe…I don't know…"

She took his hand and it hurt for one split second, faster than he could really process and then she smiled.

'Come on then Samuel, won’t hurt a thing for you to rest a bit. Just a few seconds and then we'll go find what you're seeking. Unless you find something better,' she said, but he was already stepping over the threshold and when he was over, he forgot what he wanted to ask her. It was warm in the cabin and it smelled good.



In Which Dean Finds John the Balladeer, Or Silver John
The trail wore mightily on him these days. John was a long way from young, and his bones were none too happy with tramping around sunup to sunset. Could be his beloved Evadare was right—it was getting on time for him to stop a-wandering and settle for good. He gathered up tinder and dry branches, and made a fire—good to cook on and good to warm old bones by.

John was fixing to open a can of sardines, already had a few corn cakes baking on a good flat rock pried up from the little creek's bank when a boy come a-running hell bent for leather out the edge of the woods. John weren't much startled—he'd been expecting him. A body didn't need any kind of sight to know that boy'd show up sooner or later. He'd been charging through the woods for most part of the day, hollerin' something fierce for a one gone missing. John minded he had some idea of what that boy wanted; now he was waiting on the boy to talk, to see if he was right on what'd happened.

"Who are you?" the boy barked, when he caught sight of John by the fire. He had a bead drawed on him with a pretty little Colt 1194, nickel-plated and ivory-handled like a vanity piece but that boy had a look in his eye that John knew well. No doubt at all, what the boy held was a gun made for serious work for all it looked pretty, John thought—if a body favored that sort of thing.

"Who am I? Might be I could ask you the same thing son, since you're the one busting in on my supper like that." John said it soft and let a touch of a smile into his voice--it was plain to see, that boy was only one good step from cutting up fierce but he put up the Colt. John noted he put it up close to hand and that made him want to laugh a bit. The boy had manners but was nobody's fool. John approved both the manners and the good sense. Whoever raised the boy, they done raised him right.

Sorry, sir." He said it like he might have fought in the war, but it was plain he was no soldier now—'leastways, not in air war fought now. Maybe raised by one. His cheeks looked blushed red in the firelight and he kept his eyes cast down. He was a good boy, that much was obvious. John jerked his chin to one side of the fire. "Sit on down, son--you ate yet?"

"No sir, but…I'm looking for someone. Tall guy, a bit taller than me—maybe a bit taller than you," he said, looked John up and down with an appraising eye. "Maybe you've seen him—all arms and legs and brown hair, sticking out all over?" He grimaced and John expected he meant for it to be a smile.

"Well now, I sure didn't but you should set on down and put something in your belly. Need your strength to find your—" John let him answer. He took a second, seemed reluctant to say for some reason or other.

"My partner," he said and left it that way.

"What brings you all out in these cold woods, you and your partner?" John asked, and took the cakes out of the fire. Split them to share. "There's coffee, too," John said and the young man looked askance at the beat-up old pot perking away. John chuckled and said, "I know what it looks like, my old pot—shoot, most of you youngsters don’t know what a percolator is, these days, but my old tin pot's been faithful to me all these years. You don’t get rid of what's stood by you for no good reason 'cepting you want something new. Go on and sit now, help yourself to what'air I got here. My name's John, and since I asked you a question, I'll share a bit 'bout me." He pointed to his old guitar sticking out top of his pack, and explained, "I'm a hunter of the old, old songs, true tales and mysteries."


John spied the way the boy's eyes cut at him, quick and hard, before they thawed again. He nodded. "I'm Dean. I…guess you could say we're sort of hunters too, me and my partner. And man, I'd love to have some coffee—thank you, sir."

Good manners, John thought. A pure pleasure these days. Again, a sign he was raised well. The boy Dean set down without even looking, just pulled up a patch of dirt and got comfortable, and it was plain to see that he'd had his nights sleeping out in the open. John felt more a sense of kinship with the boy. Dean stretched and settled—or made it look like he was. John smiled to himself and sipped at his coffee. In truth, it was like sitting across from ball lightning. Dean's attention was everywhere, John harked that attention included him. To be sure, Dean was studying him like John was one of the professor's old books, minded John of that time he stayed a spell at Fortnoy College. John reckoned he gave the young man about a library's worth of study. The questions Dean had itched the edge of his tongue for sure but he weren't about to ask. He moved to drink out of the camp mug he'd been handed and a necklace he wore caught the light. John felt a bright spark of surprise--his eyebrows like to have climbed up off his forehead with it.

"Well, Dean, that's a right interesting necklace you got there," he said, trying to make the observation as casual as he could.

Dean smiled and two of his fingers traced the shape of it. "Yeah, it is. My, unh, my partner gave it to me."

It looked Phoenician—John had seen its like in some of those dusty old books he'd studied, looking for old songs and folk stories that Professor Deal and he had wanted to study on. The thing might have looked pagan, but John reckoned it wasn't a bad thing, horned though it was. What it did was hold a lot of power— power John could feel tickling at his skin, from right across the fire—but what it held power for, he didn't know. Still and all, this Dean fellow didn't appear to John to look like the kind to do bad or wish bad or tolerate bad. Bad wasn't going to sneak up on him like it did on some folks.

John shared out his sardines and cake, and they was most of the way through the coffee when he figured the time was right to get back to asking questions, polite or not. Sometimes, it was just good sense. "Where you hail from, Dean--and I understand if you'd rather I just set here and maybe play us a song or two instead of talk," he said. John was pretty sure the boy was of a mind to answer, but it might take some time—Dean had the look being one that didn't like being crowded one little bit.

Dean studied the fire for a while before he shrugged, said, "No sir, it's okay, but I'm not really sure we are from any one place. Though I guess…you could say we're from Kansas. Lawrence, Kansas."

John was caught flat-footed. It come together like a shot. Kansas…Dean. The look in his eyes. John had seen that look before.

He peered over the young fellow, and yup. No doubt who this 'Dean' was. And if this here fellow was one of those Kansas boys, he sure enough did have a tiger by the tail. John Winchester and his boys. Fools and errant knights, falling into troubles as they go. Bringing light, and stirring up the darkness. John shook his head. There was nothing to be said there. What was done was done. He'd heard in his travels that the elder Winchester had passed on That purely was a loss—their paths had crossed once, and John had enjoyed his company. Winchester had been driven though, and that was a thing that never did a body good…the word was that a great evil had been destroyed by their hand, but…magic had a way of coming back on a body. He shook his head again, this time to clear out unwelcome cobwebs of worry.

"Where were you and your partner headed to?" John asked, easy-like because he reckoned he'd let Dean keep his secrets to himself, but there must have been more than some trace of his natural-born curiosity in his voice—Dean looked at him hard and his face cleared, flat and still as a pond in winter.

"Headed…? No particular place. Maybe South Dakota, maybe…California."

Dean's face might have been still, his voice might have been soft like ary thing was wrong, John thought, but what he hid off his face was carried to his eyes. Some deep, deep pain. The kind of pain that burdened a man because he had no place big enough to put it down. "Sam…might want to go there, to California." His lips turned up and he let out a laugh, and it sparkled with that pain. Fools and knights…"I've got an appointment to keep at year's end and he…well, he's got some ends he needs to tie up."

Sam, John thought. The younger one, the brother. "That what you all were fighting 'bout?"

"Yes—no! Yeah…Sam's an idiot sometimes."


John hmm'd quietly and let it go. Sometimes partners came to a crossroads, and it took a bit of working on to hit which path to take. Hadn't he done much the same with his best friend and true love, Evadare? Not that brothers were anything like man and wife. No, he thought, sometimes nothing could be closer to you or hurt you more than your own flesh and blood.

They sat quiet, drank a little more coffee and then, John felt that part of the evening had come when men sat back and smoked or drank their health to one another--he pulled out a bottle that had been gifted to him by a grateful man a while back. Dean's eyes lit up and John didn't blame him—blockade went a treat on an airish-like evening. He didn't indulge much, but there were times, when the night was too cold and sharp, or if a clinging sort of mist had blown too near, or the heart was near 'bout to crack down the middle from worry and sorrow….

He splashed a touch in his mug and a touch in Dean's. "Dean, you care for a story while we enjoy this fine blockade?" He loosed his trusty guitar from out his pack and watched Dean settle again—the minute John had reached to the side, he'd caught in the corner of his eye that Dean had bristled all up like an old hunting dog—John Winchester to the bone—but when he'd seen it were only the guitar, he blew a long low breath and loosened up some. John chuckled inside and strummed the strings, and marked Dean saw that they were silver and knew what that meant. Dean grinned—right out grinned and suddenly, John felt like he had one of his grandsons sitting across from him, waiting for a good old tale. So, he gave him the one that he thought might just be the answer to what Dean was seeking. "This story's been told to me as true. and might be your Sam is living it now.



Samuel entered the hall, his long legs eating up the distance quickly. Nearly every step took him past a mirror shimmering in candlelight, throwing back a hundred, more, a thousand Samuels, striding towards the arched high-arched room at the end of the hall. She stood waiting for him, fine as a queen in a long blue gown, blue as a midnight sky and sprinkled with stars, her shoulders alabaster against the soft, heavy fabric. Her hair danced around her shoulders, black as ink, black as the void, black as night were her eyes and her lashes….

'Rosalind,' said he--though it came out a question--and she smiled and held out her hands.

'Come join us, dear Captain, the table's set and the fiddlers are wait to play us a tune. Eat some, drink some and dance some with me this eve.'

The skirts of her gown swirled round around her ankles and she laughed in pleased delight. Her laughter filled him like sparkling wine, bubbled in his veins and made him warm but put him in mind of other laughter, bright, smoky, burning like whiskey, laughter that filled him and made his belly burn….

Rosalind frowned and stamped her tiny foot. Tend to me Samuel, and sit yourself at my side.

Samuel turned back to face the hall--all the seats at the long, long table were filled, man and woman, down the long, long, field of snow-white cloth, candles burned the length of it, filled the air with bright flickering bits of gold. The table groaned under the weight of food, plate after plate and bowl after bowl of all kind of good food, every dish his favorite. Game and fish, fruits and vegetables of every sort a man could want.

Now my brave Captain, take what you see, take what you want. She led him to the only empty seat save hers, and pulled it back like a suitor to his beloved, made him sit as she smiled. Won’t you take a glass of wine? Dandelion wine we have, made from the first tender flowers, or maybe you'd relish a bit of this instead. She held a glass half-filled with a red liquid, dark, so thick it coated the side of the glass as she swirled it in her fingers. 'First of the grapes, dear Captain, the blood of the vines.'

Samuel frowned, her words echoed strangely in his ears. He shook his head and turned his face away.

She set the glass down, ran her slim fingers through his hair, to his chin and tilted his face to hers. 'Mayhap later, my Captain dear?'

He nodded slowly. 'Later.'

She waved her hands to the gathered. 'Eat, drink. Fiddlers,' she called and turned to the men dressed in black with red shirts and black garters, sat on a low stage. 'Play us an air; play us good old song, something a soldier would like. Something my Captain would like.'

They played as the guests ate, and ate, and ate…Samuel felt his middle crease and groan, ache and roar but a soft golden voice warned him no, and he refused all food, he refused all drink….


The ball went on and the revelers ate and drank and the dancers spilled out onto the terrace. Lights bobbed over head, casting a pale silver gleam over the flagstones, over the vines that climbed 'round the walls to let through a broken view of what was not to be found…nothing but deep, deep blackness, not even a moon, not even the stars.

'Dance with me Captain and I'll make what you dream of come true.'

Samuel shook his head. 'You can't give me what I want.'

Her smooth face broke into sharp angles and her teeth dug at her lip 'til it turned white beneath them. 'What you want is…'

Samuel laughed. 'How can you give me what I don’t know myself?'

Rosalind's eyes tilted up at the corners, her mouth tilted the same and she had a sharp foxy look for a breath or two. 'I expect if you don’t know it, it can't be important.' She took his arm and linked it through hers. 'Come walk with me Captain and I'll tell you a little story, about the hills, and the lakes, and the meadows between.'



In Which Dean Listens To The Story John The Balladeer Tells
Dean drank what the old man called blockade from the mug—it stung, good and white-hot in his throat. The stuff was like Everclear, bright and sharp as hell and no doubt as deadly. Dean made a note to be careful—he couldn't afford to be dead drunk and stumbling around some place he didn't know. He matched John sip for sip, though, smiled when the dude 'ooh-wee'd' and settled back against the bedroll behind him. John heaved in a deep breath, let it out slow and began:

"A long time ago, afore these places were called what they're called now, there was a woman, the handsomest woman ary one had ever seen, Rosalind, by name. She put envy in the heart of girls who crossed her path, with her long ebony curls and coal black eyes and ruby red lips—she was the prettiest thing air drew breath. And she knew it, and she used it, to get what she wanted, and that was more than a fair bit. Fine dresses, fine horses, jewelry and such. She sent young men into a madness, running them around until they burnt up in their own fire. She'd turn an educated man into a dang fool, and a rich man into a ragged pauper.

There came one poor man loved her so much he built her a fine stone house and stable, a rose garden and a deep blue pond. The house held nigh a dozen rooms or more, and right through the middle was a big fancy hall. They say there were some more of a hundred silver glass mirrors in that hall, so everywhere she looked, she was sure to see herself. She took the house and stables, she took the gardens and pond, and cast him aside like a wore out old boot. She never loved a-one of those suitors, not a single one until her army captain came, him and his men, lost on their way to the war. He was tall and fit and brave, and she wanted him like she wanted ary a thing that sparkled and caught her eye. The captain tarried a while—she was a beautiful woman, dainty and sweet seeming. She did her best to bespell him but Duty ever called to him and when he made to leave, she wouldn't have it. What no one knew, though some might have suspicioned, she'd made herself into quite a witch-woman and she studied to keep him.

One last time, she promised, and then she'd send him on with her blessing, and she led the captain up her fine double staircase, to a room at the top of the house. She laid him on the bed, she kissed him and when he closed his eyes, she stuck him with a thorn from a bush covered all over with blue roses. Well, from that day he slept ever on, never waking--not like that princess shut away in the tower, all rested up on a dusty bed in a dusty room away from ary body—the captain moved and danced and did all she wanted—only, a part of him died, each day a bit more, until her fine bright captain withered away to bone and ashes, tossed on the wind to blow through her great hall.

Magic, boy, it will turn back on its own tail, take the bespelled and bespeller too. She raged and screamed and burned and snatched the roses out by their roots, blasted the water out the pond. She poisoned the fields and sickened the cattle, made the streams run bloody and crops grow black and wormy, 'til she'd chased off the folks who lived in that land. The forest took back its own, and covered over ary sign of the village she'd come up out of. Some folks said she'd died and it was over and others said she'd never died, that to this day she calls her captain anew and the ashes of her suitors feed up the roses…."

A lonely tune shivered into silence and Dean blinked hard. Shook himself all over. The fire was low, mostly embers now, his mug was empty. He pulled himself back to the present and frowned. "Well, hell, you sure can tell a story, man."

John nodded. "It's a powerful story."

Dean cleared his throat and said, "Yeah, but…it's just another way to tell the story of Sleeping Beauty. Ah." Dean stopped and flushed a bit, staring into the fire like answers twisted in it.

Dean caught the glance John sent him, and then he settled to staring at the fire too, seeming to find it as fascinating as Dean did.

"Well. Now that's an interesting thought, Dean. I wonder me if that story carries the clue to breaking the witch-woman's power." John fiddled a bit with the silver strings of his guitar and Dean kept still. Nothing evil could touch silver like that, or handle iron like that hook that held the pot of coffee. He was pretty sure nothing evil had booze as good as John's….

"Hark at me, Dean. We don't need to play games now. You hunt the same things I do—I found that out through your daddy."

"My dad?" Dean felt like the man had punched him in the gut. "You can't have met my dad. You—are you lying to me?"

John looked at him with a slight air of disappointment, but the anger Dean expected to be met with wasn't there—just that look, and a little patience thrown in. "I'll let that go, son. You got a short fuse like your daddy, I see that. Settle down and leave me speak. We know the same things, me and your family. I see you bear a twist of sage in your pockets, salt as well. Those are good ivory grips on your fine Colt. That's right, I know what it means. I come out here to search this witch woman out and put her to rest. She's a danger round here. I aimed to stop her--"

"Well you're gonna have to let me help, because we both know she's got Sam. I'm sure of it. Shit, if it's evil and female, that poor fucker draws them like he's catnip—excuse my language."

John waved his hand. "No need. Come on back here, and let me show you what I got. And how to bring her down."

From his pack, John took a small chest. He opened it, and in that chest was an amazing piece—a musket, an antique for sure, but gleaming and clean as a gun used every day. He laid it out on the ground. There was another small sack inside the bag, from that sack, he poured round shot out into his palm. He looked up at Dean. "This here shot is silver-coated iron, twice the power to take down evil. You ever handle a musket, Dean?"

Dean nodded and took the silver shot from the man, and the musket-style pistol. "I have, John. There aren't many weapons I don’t have some kind of experience with." He smiled at John, and John nodded.

"Reckoned that might be the case. Now…to kill the witch, because that's what you'll have to do--she's not about to let any fancy talk change her of her evil ways. She's dangerous and wicked and she's not got nothing much of human ways left in her. You can't hesitate, or think of nothing but what you've set out to do, Dean. Set a ring of healing salt 'round the cabin's door. What *looks* to be a cabin," John said, "Once in the door, the glamour will fall away. The cabin's the gateway to all she rules. Time, place, spirit—whoever falls under her rule, who bows to her invite, is subject to her and she rules all in that place."

Dean nodded. He'd had experience with glamours too. He knew how solid they could seem, how a lifetime could be lived in a single minute under their influence, or how a millennium could be squashed down into hours…right now, Sam was living a whole life while he raced around like an asshole in the woods wasting hours that were years for Sam. He closed his eyes and pushed the thought away and forced himself to hear what John was telling him.

"Take your flask filled with blessed water. Water's for the witches guarding the hall, silver for her hounds that will be there too. When you're in the hall, there'll be temptation aplenty. Turn your face from it all, Dean. Don’t eat, don’t drink, and don't lie down to nap, nowhere along the trail. To get to that hall, that big stone house, you got to go through the roses, up the path and right in past the double doors, tall as trees, with copper hinges and wooden pegs to hold them all together. You meet her in that hall, son, and then…do what needs doing."

Dean reached into his pocket, pulled his wallet. "Can I show you something, John?" he asked, and carefully eased out a small picture hidden behind the window displaying a fake ID. He looked at it himself for a moment before passing it to John.

John put his guitar down and took it carefully, almost reverently, it looked to Dean, and that sent a warm spike through his chest--hell yeah that picture was important. A picture of the most important thing in his life, always had been…John handed it back and Dean replaced it with just as much care as he'd taken it out. Dean patted his pocket, not really aware he did so.

"He's a fine set up looking young man. She'd find him a tasty meal--she lives off youth and breeds misery. I'm not air thing to tempt her and you…you're too full of yourself," he said. Dean frowned, but John just smiled and strummed his guitar carelessly.

"Didn't mean it like that. You're centered. You know what you want, you know what you are; you've got no confusion 'bout that. You're a simple man, Dean. A good man."

Dean thanked him…sort of. He wasn't too sure the man hadn't meant he was more stupid than simple. He thanked him and wondered aloud, "So, I know about iron and silver but there seems to be something more about this bi—witch than you're telling me."

"Rightly so, to think that." John replied. "There's more to be said 'bout her. She's not strictly a witch, not strictly an elemental—you've heard tell of them?"

Sure Dean had heard of them. Had even dealt with them—"I have. They're like…demigods, sort of." He grit his teeth, scowled at the memory.

"Reckon you had a dustup with such before?" John asked. "One that wasn't to your liking."

Dean thought that was putting it mildly. "You could say that. Trickster. Least it called itself a trickster. The only thing it had in common with trickster lore I know was the means went painfully overboard to reaching the ends."

"Trickster likes to think it's teaching a lesson in what it does…sometimes the lesson ends up permanent-like. How is it you're still ankling about if you got on the raw end of one?"

"John, I wish I knew. The damn thing knew something about us it wasn't sharing—I got that. It was halfway between laughing at us and feeling kind of bad for us—and hating us. Who knows, maybe we messed up some gig—uh, some deal—it had in mind."

"Maybe," John replied, but seemed willing to let that conversation drop. "Well, I imagine you're more than ready to head yonder, seek out your partner. Remember ary word I said, and fill yourself with faith you'll get it done Dean. Come pass by this way when you get him. I do wish I could go with—but this is a lonesome thing."

John stood, set his guitar down on the ground. He passed over the wooden chest that held the musket, took Dean's hand in his in a solid handshake—Dean was surprised, John had one hell of a strong grip—worlds stronger than a man who looked John's age should have.

Dean shook himself. It was time to get back on course. No telling how much time Sammy had…he headed out into the dark woods, and thought he heard the sound of the guitar behind him, the silver strings playing high and sweet, John's voice a smoky undertone weaving through it.



The music played on, and Rosalind took Samuel's hand and walked him up a stair case, long narrow and windy, up and up, past narrow windows, slit into the stone, that looked out on a land black and gray and white, black rose brambles roamed over gray trees and gray hedges bearing round white fruit and black birds rose from the bushes and wheeled in the sky, giving voice to wild cries and Samuel felt his heart ache and twist for the lack of color, felt his soul cry out for the cool green of oceans, dark green of pines, jade… black wings beat against the window and drove him on, upwards.

'Faster Captain,' she sang and urged him to speed and they flew up the stairs so tall Samuel wondered if they'd run up forever and ever until they hurtled into the sky….

They reached their destination and Rosalind laughed and swept open a dark oak door on copper hinges. Inside, the room was narrow and the ceiling high, high. Tall chests leaned against the walls, thick rugs lay scattered on the floor and in the center, a high wide bed. The room was dark though candles were every where. On every surface, fat, butter yellow candles spit and crackled and burned, spider web tendrils of black smoke trembled on the flame, soared up to braid together under the dark wood ceiling.

'Come to me, Samuel, keep me company.'

There were three steps up to the bed, and rose petals strewn across all. Samuel picked his way through them, took off his high boots and stockings, unbuttoned coat and shirt and dropped them on the black oak planks of the steps, didn't remark on the puffs of gray dust disturbed in their corners. Heat made the front of him burn and run sweat; cold ate at the back of him, crept into and clawed at muscle, made him ache.

She lay in the center of the bed, white and red and black and like the land, rose brambles ran over her, tattooed around her wrists and ankles and neck, she rose and bent before him and he saw that the loop inked around her throat ran down her back and between the sweet swell of her cheeks. He shuddered. The brambles traced over her silk smooth body frightened him as much as the slices of thorn whipped moonlit landscape he'd spied in the windows.

She lifted her eyes to him and Samuel was caught, swam in heat and pleasure. This was his place and she was his and she chose to give herself to him…it was an honor. A blessing, a gift…his mouth was moving and he heard himself say, 'just this night' but…it couldn’t be true. It was many nights, nights and nights and nights. Course gray wool pants joined the shirt and gray wool jacket on the floor, and the cold worked it's away into the muscle of his backside, his calves knotted and jumped from the pain and yet…he burned, his stomach, his cock, burned and wanted.

The bed's white pillows were like clouds and the white sheets like the wings of swans, the white comforter like snow peaks.

'I wish you'd kiss me, my soldier dear.'

'I will,' Samuel said, and curved over her to do just that. It was all he'd wanted to do for what seemed like a lifetime but when he closed his eyes, it was another mouth he saw, and other eyes and hair the color of old brass….

She stroked his brow and straightened his limbs. She ran her hands over his chest and down his stomach and wrapped long thin fingers around his cock and sighed. 'Do you love me?" she asked and 'of course,' Samuel answered. 'I love the curve of your shoulder, and the middle of your back.' She kissed him and he gasped. 'I—I—love your eyes.' She hummed and let her throat take him, long deep kisses and licks of her tongue and he sighed, 'I love your hands, thick and strong, and the brown of your cheeks and the green of your eyes, like young apples, like the lakes…'

There was a scream, a crack of air exploding, the lights were gone and he was in the great hall, blinking at the fire roaring up into the fireplace and the dancers looked gray-faced with fear but laughed brittle and high and far way there was a sound of lions on the hunt, of hounds running something screaming to ground.



In Which Dean Faces The Monster
Dean pushed through branches and leaves that littered the narrow path he'd headed up when he'd come across John. That John…he'd been one odd old guy, seeming serious, almost to the point of solemn, but with a twinkle in his eyes that told you know he knew how to appreciate a joke. Dean liked him for that, and for his knowledge of the supernatural. It was a hell of an odd thing, to come across someone who knew as much as they did and wasn't a hunter. Or not in the way they were hunters. He bet Dad had loved getting this guy John in a corner, swapping stories. He'd have to go over the journal, and see if he'd put in anything about John. Man, they had a lot in common--plus he'd be willing to bet any money that this guy had been a soldier too, though probably not in Nam like Dad….

Dean huffed. The old dude was in some damn great shape for his age—hell, he was in great shape for *Dean's* age. He'd come off that cold dirt like his joints were made of grease and Teflon.

Dean stretched—it pulled a groan out of him when he did. Between the minotaur that one year in Pennsy, clipping his knee with a fucking sledgehammer of a hoof, and how the fuck had *that* bitch ended up the States--and being flung into various hard ass surfaces by various evil sonsabitches, it was no easy thing to loll around on the ground, not like it had been when he was in his teens…and Sam was still that supple, that graceful. Bastard. Four years at college had saved Sam quite a lot of the bruising and breaking his brother'd had to suffer and he had yet to catch up. Dean sighed. Sam.

What if the guy was wrong? What if Sam had just decided to leave—for good? He knew that kid. If that's what he'd decided, no way was he going to find him. Or…what if it was just humans who'd taken him, or he'd fallen off one of these mountain trails, or…"FUCK."
Enough. That path of thinking was pointless, and John said the witch had Sam and he believed it….

Behind him lay the car--going towards the sun would take him out to the road, and back to where he'd parked the car. Going away from the sun, and John's fire, would lead him higher into the mountains…where John said the witch-woman lived. For more than a hundred years she had her way, taking what she wanted. Dean couldn't let her keep doing that—even if she hadn't taken Sam, he'd have had to stop her. The fact she had his brother just gave him that much more incentive to dig her out and end her. Dean slowed to a stop, rubbed the flat of his hand hard down the bridge of his nose. Damn it. He really hoped to have the strength to just end her and not make her pay for taking his brother. Sam wouldn't want that, he wasn't like that. He was a better person than Dean—always had been. Dean spent almost his whole life knowing that something was wrong with him, deep at his core…Sam…Sam wasn't that way. Sam was a decent, whole person. He'd see when Dean was gone that he wasn't losing much. That life without Dean was going to feel better, fresher…he'd see.

The trail into the mountains thinned and widened with no rhyme or reason. Some spots he could have driven the Impala through and other spots an Olsen twin couldn't have squeaked by. He regretted not bringing the damn machete with him, but he hacked away savagely with his knife, a nice big Bowie, with a nice big blade and he imagined the witch's neck in every tangled vine or branch trying to keep him off the path. Bitch. "BITCH."

Saying it out loud didn’t make him feel any better.

Sam. Asshole. Idiot, pain in his ass beloved little brother. Running off, pissing and moaning and having a shit fit, just like always when stuff got…bad between them. Fuck. Why couldn't Sam handle their shit with the same calm and patience he handed other people's? Where the hell was Mahatma Sam when it came to dealing with stuff that concerned him? Dean heaved a sigh and jumped over a tangled heap of dead branches and leaves. That wasn't really true and it wasn't really fair. Sam only left when he was pushed to the edge—made to leave, really. Dean's fault. He knew it…he just didn’t like to look it in the face.

He had some idea why Sam wanted to keep moving. Sam's misplaced loyalty kept him with Dean, Sam's stupid sense of right and wrong told him he should. And now…now with him thinking he'd find some way to save Dean…it was too fucked up. Maybe, maybe what he needed to do was find some way to keep Sam the hell away from him—keep him safe. There had to be some way to do that, and maybe get his brother some of the happiness he deserved. Why the fuck hadn't he asked for that, instead of a useless year?

Quicker than he'd expected, he was in the yard of a small cabin, a beat up, scabby looking little place. The porch was a rotten tongue, lolling out before the door that yawned open like a mouth waiting to be filled. The black and empty windows put him in mind of soulless black eyes—he swore the place was watching him…he grabbed the handful of iron nails in one front pocket, and fished a mini-mag lite out of the other. He took a step into the yard. He felt sick, like the minute he touched that dirt, a weight sank into his bones. He took slow, careful step up the rotted porch, skirting around holes.

Inside the doorway, he peered about. The room was dark, featureless, but there was another door in the far wall. He waited for the glamour to fall away like John said it would but…there was no change. Dean shuffled across the floor, feeling his way. When he touched the door in the wall, the nails in his pocket burned against his thigh.

He opened the door. And the woods beyond that doorway were not the woods he'd left behind. The wet smell of growing things, of rain collected in rotting leaves, of green and mud and blooming flowers, was thick in the air, heavy enough to be almost a taste as well as a smell.

He took a deep breath and sent a plea to whatever good thing could hear him and stepped out of the door. He walked forward briskly—the light of the moon was bright enough to steer by. He was almost into the trees before he stopped—turned to look behind him. He wasn't very surprised to find the cabin gone. Dean shrugged, and stomped off into the trees.

He was slogging through mud in a depressingly familiar way in minutes.

He was grabbed again, whipped and hooked by branches. There was a whippy little vine covered with little barbs and growing through everything, that seemed to love the taste of him. Dean cursed, yanked the sleeve of his jacket out of its grip. Dean looked at his sleeve, down to check on his laces and only a hunter would have heard the small noise that snatched his attention away from himself and upwards…something swept out of the trees and headed straight for him, something black—it sailed in the air and looked like a shadow but the edge of it furled and unfurled. It headed out of the trees and straight for Deans' head. It shouldn't have been terrifying, it was just a black smudge in the sky but there was something sowrong about it and Dean knew if it touched him, if it landed on him—

He shouted in disgust when the edge of it touched his bare hand—it was like being touched by the putrid, cold skin of a corpse. It didn't take conscious thought for him to rip through it with the Bowie, and it shuddered all through, whipped up its edge and wrapped around Dean's hand, quicker than a snake strike. The black membrane tightened on his hand—pins and needles shot up his wrist, into his arm.

Dean was on his knees, biting his lip to keep from yelling out. He fished the silver knife out of his boot, hissing as it tumbled almost out of his hand, but desperate fingers locked on it and jabbed at the flat, black, shadowy, thing, heedless of cutting himself. At the first touch of silver it somehow made a noise like a tortured tea kettle and released him. "Fuck that," Dean yelled and stumbled to his feet. His hand throbbed and screamed, red and raw as though it'd been boiled but no way was he going to let the thing fly off and come at him again. Dean leapt up, slicing and jabbing and hoping that if not the stabbing, then maybe the touch of silver would kill it. The flat piece of shadow twisted and humped and squalled, flapping up and up into the trees until it slammed into branches over the path and burst like a rotten piece of fruit.

Dean ducked back away quickly—hunting things that melted, exploded or popped and showered you with greasy or gooey and almost always rank-enough-to-make-you-hurl fluid taught quick reflexes…he managed to avoid the shower of…of killer frisbee, or whatever the fucking thing was….

"Round one bitch? Lame…." He snorted and dodged around a large chunk of runny black and lilac flesh and kept on the path.

Rose bushes reared around him, thicker and thicker, the tiny pale faces of wild white roses followed him, the gloom making them look almost like real faces, little mouths opening and closing on silent screams, petals tore, shredded as he moved, showering him. Some bushes held flowers so deep a purple they looked black, and some bushes held small white shapes that locked like nodding skulls from the corner of his eyes…the canes and branches moved, rustled, creaked, pulled at his clothing and raked his cheeks and hands like lived things and fuck, they might be…"God damn it when I find you I'm taking your fucking *head* off," he shouted into the night, and got a weird wild howling in answer. He snapped his mouth shut and struggled not to shiver. The howling worked its way right under his skin, broke him out in an ice cold sweat.

"Shut up," he muttered, and moved faster. "You haven't got me yet, you can't touch me yet..."

He had months with Sammy yet. Months to set him up. To make sure that after, he'd be happy. That's all he wanted. All he hoped for. His mind wandered backwards, to when they were young and going to live forever and Dean had known that he was beautiful, he'd be a fool to pretend any kind of false modesty…but his little brother, man, even then, he'd known, Sam was going to be…like the sun, amazing, heartbreaking…and Dean had been so proud, knowing that. He wished that he felt like that now, just proud and happy for his brother, and not wanting any of it for himself, just as much a freak as anything they put down….

There was a snapping and cracking in the woods ahead of him, a low animal sound drifting to him. "Round two bitch? Bring it on; I'm ready for whatever—"



The trail took a downward dip and Dean was surprised—he'd got the impression that this witch would be at the top of a hill, more into the mountains. In fact, he couldn't understand why the trail headed down when every bit of his walk before this was taking him higher…his boots were rubbing against his toes with the constant pressure, even though they'd always been comfortable before this—hell, he even played ball in these boots and beat Sam's socks off, for all he was a giant. Coordination, Sammy, it's all about speed and coordination. Sam might have a giant brain, but Dean ran rings around him, and…

Dean stopped, jammed his hand against a tree trunk and let the arm hold his weight a bit. He breathed harder, the way he'd expect if he was at a much higher elevation. He wiped his forehead, and under his nose. He was sweating like some out of shape couch potato, damn it. He took a couple of deep breaths, centered himself, and started walking again.

He wasn't sure if he was still dropping or if the path had finally leveled out, but it seemed a bit easier now. The vegetation was as deep and dark as it had been at the start. The bushes raked at his jacket, but he'd gotten so he could move with it a bit and spare himself the constant goring. His eyes had started to burn; he put it down to being tired and kind of dry. He hefted the pack and knew he should be taking out the canteen but it just seemed like too much trouble. He fought a yawn. Tired, damn. He was so fucking tired it wasn't even funny. He'd never had the experience of being so beat he was afraid to walk. He remembered all the times he'd been too fucked to drive—had pulled over to the shoulder or some likely spot, leaned against the window and fallen gratefully to sleep. Thought about the way it felt right before you dropped off, that drifting, floating, feeling; it was almost as good as coming. He slowed, the air thicker and thicker around him, so thick, felt like he could lean into it, rest against it…thick so it felt like he was breathing molasses…in one slow inhalation…out a long, long, exhalation. It was warm and he was so tired, and one second, all he needed was to sit for just one second….

"Fuck!" Dean stumbled when the tip of his boot hooked under a gnarled root, and fuck if it wasn't like flipping a switch in a dark room—he was awake, wide awake and shaking in a cold sweat, John's warning echoing in his brain. He blinked a few times but the lethargy that had brought him to his knees was gone like it never was. He stalked forward, pushing through the vines with a serious case of hate. There were a couple of brand-new cans of lighter fluid in his pack. If he got a chance he was burning the fucking wood down.

The time…time was passing oddly, Dean thought. If he'd been a civilian, he'd have been sure he was crazy. It was an upside down and inside out sort of feeling. He wasn't really sure if it was night or day—the vegetation blocked out the light. Where it wasn't black it was an odd greenish color, as if the light was pouring through the leaves. That feeling of swimming through syrup had been replaced with a hyper-awareness of everything... the air had that feeling it got right before a lightning storm….

"Sammy, where are you, where are you—ah!" Dean shouted in disgust, something flew past him, an invisible something that had brushed up against him and left a feeling of mucus coated fur over the bare skin of his hands. It was moving fast, it hadn't been more than a fleeting touch—and suddenly he was surrounded by the sound of hooves, tack shaking and ringing, moist breath exploded against his face and raced away. He spun around as an invisible weight knocked him sideways and the nails in his pocket burned liked flares.

Ahead of him in the dark, he could make out a set of eerily glowing double doors set into what looked like rockface. Blobs of bobbing, greenish light coalesced into vaguely horse-like shapes, huge dog creatures almost ugly enough to be hellhounds, and people dressed for another century. At the head, a thin apparition, a greenish glowing sketch of a beautiful woman, and next to her rode a man dressed like a soldier of a long, long ago war…the man turned in the saddle, casting a long look over his shoulder. Long dark hair blew around his face, parted to reveal narrowed fox-eyes in a face that was set in determined misery--"Sam!"

The shades went straight through the door without a sign of having noticed Dean at all. Sam was gone, again.

Dean charged the doors, threw himself right at them and dropped like a stone.

"MotherFUCK." His head and shoulders felt like he'd been in an encounter with a Louisville slugger. A couple of them, wielded by some psycho sonofabitches. His hands and shoulder burned with a blood deep, ice-cold ache, and his breath fogged the air. Dean shook his hands out, trying to shake away the pain. "Fucking hell…what the fuck was that?" He saw that the doors were the doors John had described to him. Even if he hadn't seen Sam, he'd have known he reached the first part of his goal. He took a deep breath, walked up the doors tall as trees, with copper hinges shaped like branches in a wind, and pegs holding together. He reached for the doorknobs, shaped like ram's horns, and turned them. The door opened silent and smooth as silk. "Great. That's just great. Just opens like…" Dean shook his head and walked inside. Time to bring Sam back.




In Which Dean confronts Rosalind
The hall beyond the doors was wide as a road; the walls went up and up and up, to a ceiling so high above him, Dean wondered if one actually existed. The smell of hot wax was thick in the air; dozens of candles did their sputtering best to light the space. Dean peered down the hall and thought that he'd almost be better off without the juddering, shifting glow. He shrugged, tightened his grip on the pack and started forward—no deviating from the path now.

A light breeze brushed constantly past his ear, a sensation like spider web damp from morning dew drew over his face and he brushed it away, annoyed. There was the sound and feel of Leaves swirling underfoot as he walked across the bare flagstones that made up the hall floor. Dean paid all of this little mind—he was focused on the one thing he wanted. Everything else was…window dressing.

Slowly he became aware that he was hearing something besides his weirdly muffled footsteps, he could hear a clear, bright, tinkling like crystal touching, and laughter now, soft and human. He heard music, old style, like the music like in that movie with what's his name, Clooney…at least it sounded a little like that….

He slowed, kept to the wall and eased his way to where light spilled out of an open doorway. He took a step closer and fell against something big, slimy, and hot. It took all his willpower not to yell, and he jerked away from the touch, already knowing what it was. Hellhounds—or no, not hellhounds, but fucking close enough--were suddenly blocking his way, wet muzzles gleaming in the candlelight. A pair of them, and they fixed Dean with blood red, saucer shaped eyes, eying him like he was their last chance at a decent meal. Low growls rumbled out of their wet jaws. They split and circled him, making Dean spin on his heel. "S'okay, no worry, I can do this—they’re not hellhounds, they're just nasty fucking dog…things…" Black Dogs, barquists, spell-locked to the witch no doubt....

They hit him, high and low, and he fell hard to the floor, the shock of hitting the stone almost taking his breath away. One of the dogs grabbed his arm before he could get to the gun in his belt and its teeth went through him like a hot knife through butter. Dean clamped down hard on his lip, forcing the scream into his throat. It let go to try and get a better grip, right as the other dog grabbed his leg and yanked. Dean felt the top of his head come off for a minute before he was flipped to his belly. The dog on him was knocked away by its overenthusiastic brother, and whipped its head back to snap at the other. Dean took the blink of opportunity—he scrabbled at the back of his jeans, and pulled the silver loaded pistol free, just as he was flipped again and the dog started to drag him towards the light. One dog was in his face, jaws open wide, spit dripping and stinging where it landed. It was close, so close it trapped Dean's gun hand between his chest and itself. Dean shoved the gun as far as he could against the slimy body and pulled the trigger. The shot ripped through its chest and out through its neck and it dropped like a stone on top of Dean.

The other dog dropped Dean's leg and roared. It gripped him again by his shoulder and pulled, but it pulled him free of the corpse of its brother and freed up Dean's hand to take a shot—he put a silver bullet into its saucer sized eye. It fell to the flagstones without a sound and Dean fought the wave of dizziness that took him. The hallway seemed to shudder, Dean felt the floor under him shift like a boat at sea. The phantom fiddles skipped a beat, screeched out of tune…or maybe it was all in his head…he wanted to vomit and the damn bites burned like acid.

He scooted away from the center of the hall against the gloom-cloaked wall. Took out the holy water and doused his wounds. Even if the blessed water didn't do a thing, it couldn't hurt. But of course, the water hitting whatever demonic thing was in the dog spit burned like…well, like acid. Dean panted through a wave of pain. He tried to console himself with the thought that the burning, aching, grinding, pain he was feeling at the moment meant that it was working, woo-hoo. He checked the wounds…not too bad. He wasn't going to be bleeding out here. He got to his feet and breathed easier when his leg supported his weight, and jerked a look up and down the hall and waited. After all that commotion someone was bound to hear, bound to come after him….

Minutes went by, longer and longer, and no response to the noise came. Finally, he dragged the pack around to sit between his feet and uncovered the musket, loaded it with the blessed iron rounds, tucked it in the front of his pants. He took out another bottle of holy water, and tucked a silver knife into his belt as well, then kicked the pack into the shadows, he was either coming back for it, or he'd end up sitting at that table, too—or hell, going directly under the rosebushes….

The doorway opened on another hall lined with mirrors, exactly like the hall he'd come down, so like the hall, that he stopped and turned, and turned, staring one way and another. It was odd, disorienting. As though he'd walked in a huge circle—or through one of those Escher prints Sammy used to make such a big deal of when he was in school…another few steps and the light flared, candelabras everywhere, thick smoke and an unpleasant, greasy smell, like burning fat, filled the air.

He blinked, and there in the center of the hall was a long table, covered with food and drinks, and people lined both sides of it. Laughing smiling, busy with glasses busy with forks and knives. Busy giving the impression of enjoying themselves so very much. At e hend of the room, on a little stage, agroup of fiddlers played, and the music he'd never been sure he was hearing, twirled and skirled and soared. One stood and his white shirt glowed, the red garters they all wore looked like blood against the white. He began to sing.

Down in the low green valley
Where the violets bloom and fade
There sleeps sweet blue-eyed Ellen
In a cold and silent grave
She died not broken-hearted
Nor by disease she fell
But in one moment parted
From the one she loved so well

At the head of the table sat the witch. She smirked when she caught Dean's eye. She stood and raised her arms, and couples quickly rose from the table to dance, with brittle smiles and brittle laughter….

She was…really something else, Dean thought. Beautiful, hot--pretty much just the way he liked them. Tall, thick black hair, full lips, and a great set of tits…he blinked again, and the soldier sitting next to her snapped into focus. It hit him like a punch to the chest. Holy fuck—Sam--

His brother sat there, scowling at the table, but his eyes were haunted and hurt, and Dean recognized that desperate, craving stare, that look of hunger that was one step removed from starvation. He was sitting at a table almost bent under the weight of more food either of them had ever seen in one place, and he was starving.

"Sam—" His brother twitched slightly but settled when the witch touched him.

"Stop!" Her voice rang out and everything froze. The fiddlers, the people, Sam…it was like being in the middle of a Viewmaster slide. She moved past Sam, all the while giving the impression of rubbing all over him and Dean grit his teeth. "You…I do believe I know you. I think I've seen you in my dear Captain's dreams." She looked him up and down, pointedly. Made him feel like he was being smeared with filth. "They didn't do you justice, Brother Love…" She came closer and brought with her the odor of rotting flowers. She touched Dean's arm and he smelled fresh roses, wet from a spring rain…"You want him back, that I won't do. But maybe," she tilted her head, and her sapphire eyes sparkled like a mischievous girl's. "Maybe I might just be talked into trading, one for the other. You'd do that, I vow. You're strong, and alive and…" she frowned. "Marked already." Her hand dropped.

Dean shifted away and frowned. "What the hell are you talking about? You know what—never mind. Gimme my brother, before I blow your head off."

"You think you can threaten me, Brother Love?"

"No, you're hearing it wrong—first, I'm gonna get my brother-- then, I'm gonna blow your head off. Let. Him. Go."

"Well now, Brother Love, you can kill me all you want, but unless I let my precious Captain go, he'll be mine right to the grave and beyond. You want that for him?" She waltzed past him again, and flowed to a stop. She looked thoughtful and then smiled a smile too full of wet, white teeth. Dean shuddered and moved his hand closer to the musket…..

"You know, sweet one …if you did come to trade yourself for him, I promise you, they'll never find you. You have a year? There's no such thing as years or months or hours here. There," she swept her arms wide, "it's no more than handful of minutes passing. Here…you can live hidden, a long and happy life with me, Brother Love. Long and happy life. Everything else, why it'd be like smoke…all your little fears, your desires, your shame, your death…your Sam…"
She smiled, and stars lit her eyes, her perfect red mouth drew Dean toward her like a moth to a flame…moth to a flame…he jerked back before she could touch him. He put space between them in a hurry. "I don't think so, and stop calling me—that."

At the end of the table, where she'd sat, Sam stared the length of it, his fox eyes fixed on some distant point. He sighed, and his eyes drifted closed opened again in a long, slow, blink. His frown deepened. His hands on the table curled into fists. "What's wrong with him? Why doesn't he see me?" Dean snarled.

"All he sees is what I make, and I made every single bit of this, Brother. It's allby my hand, and by my wish." She winked at him. "But you, you're a waking, living thing. Real. You don't belong here, not like you are." She moved back to the head of the table, hips moving like they were oiled, and Dean swallowed, couldn't help following the movement, or feel the promise. But when she ran her hand up under Sam's chin and tilted his head back for a kiss, Dean felt a flare of heat at his posture and a snarl burn in his chest, that she touched Sam like that.

"Rosalind," he called out, lifted his jacket, exposing the musket. "Give him back, now."

She laughed. "You think calling my name can hurt me? You can't touch me, Brother. You can't hurt me. But hark how I hurt you."

She spit some word and two 'guests' flew up from the table, blowing through the other guests who dissipated like smoke. The witches charged him, hands outstretched and mouths moving, snarling twisted words, a curse, a spell, something that was meant to hurt him or hamper him.

"Really, assholes?" Dean laughed. This was easy, this he knew. The flask came out of his coat pocket. He popped the stopper, whipped the flask forward, slinging a long arch of holy water at them. It hit them with the force of a whip--split skin to the bone and burned everywhere the water landed. Dean didn't even wince—they were meat, they were helping to hold his brother. Blinded and yowling, they still fought to get near Dean, tearing the ghostly guests to tatters, hurling food and drink to the ground. From the corner of his eye, Dean saw Rosalind take Sam by the hand to try and guide him from the room.

The stench of burning flesh and a shriek too near snatched his attention back. The flask was empty and he dropped it, filled his hand with the knife instead. The shock of seating it in the chest of the first witch ran up his arm, and he knew that one was dead—he pulled the knife free and turned to his side and swiped it through the second's neck, deep enough to sever the artery. They bled like anyone else would, died like anyone else.

The ghostly guests screamed, the fiddlers dropped their instruments and huddled on the stage. Rosalind turned slowly towards Dean, a small, vicious smile on her perfect face.

"You are a bad, bad man, Brother, you killed my servants. I think you should go. But first, to remind you that all of this is mine alone." Her grip shifted from Sam's hand to his throat, and long knife appeared in her free hand. "I could do this without touching him, but I like the thought of killing him in front of you, with my hand."

Dean felt his insides seize, he forced himself to speak. "Wait, wait, let's talk—I'll give you—what ever you want. You know I mean it." Sam's eyes flicked to him, glassy and not quite there, beginning to be aware that there was danger.

"Sammy, I got you, don’t worry, okay?"

Sam's blank look gave way to confusion, and finally, fright, and he reached out to Dean just as she bore down on the blade. A line of red bloomed at its edge and ran into Sam's collar.

"No—"

She cut through his throat and dropped him, raised the knife—in the blink of an eye she'd thrown it. Dean was already pulling the trigger as Sam fell, and struck her between her glowing eyes. The knife she'd thrown hit true, fire raced outwards from the point it seated itself. What happened to Rosalind in those moments that the iron shot pierced her, he'd never know, there was only his brother spread out on the flagstones, glassy eyes wide and sightless, throat gaping open…he'd died never really seeing Dean. Dean knelt in the pool of Sam's blood. He held him, pressed kisses all over his still skin and lifeless mouth.

Around him, the ghosts rose up and whirled heaven-ward, triumphant and glowing with freedom, cut loose of their chains at long last. The band dissolved, fiddles became seedpods, men became toads and mice. They fled the light, crawled away from the bits of leaves and grass that had been fine clothing….

Wrapped up in grief, ignorant of the creeping gloom and the cold, Dean cried his heart out, screaming at the dark above them, "Give him back, you bitch, give him back…"

Dean's breath froze in his throat as the shoulders he had his arms wrapped around slumped, caved in, and straw dribbled out of the sleeves. Dribbled out from under a painted mask that stared up at him with empty eyes. Dean threw himself away from the straw thing. It wasn't Sam. it wasn't real—she'd said--

The walls fell in on themselves, the table crumbled under the weight of rotten food, now squirming maggots and filth. The hall was coming undone, fading like a nightmare. Dean stared at the scarecrow and his stomach cramped and flipped. Nothing was real. He should burn it down. Set that thing, set it all on fire.

A staircase still stood, the fallen walls leaving it open. Tall, winding high, winding up and up and up…he squinted and saw that there was something at the top of the stairs, something he had to see.

He stepped over the ancient, mold streaked body, just barely recognizable as having once been woman.

One step, okay, another, come on, another. Dean made himself take step after step, scared out of his mind—too scared to look down, or to look left or right. The staircase swayed, it creaked and groaned and twisted like it was trying to throw him off. Dean ground his quivering lip between his teeth and climbed. He panted wildly, and told himself he wasn't whimpering, wiped sweat out of his eyes, and climbed. And climbed, until at last there were no more stairs to climb. There was only night without stars…he bent at the waist and groaned, fought for breath…there was either something in that blackness that was calling him…or there was nothing.

"Fuck me." He took a step forward into the night. He'd either step out into…some place, or step off into space. Without Sam, it didn't matter either way.



He stumbled into a dark oak door, on copper hinges made to look like windswept trees…it swung open at his touch. Behind the door was a narrow room with a ceiling so high no light reached it. Thick rugs cushioned the floor, and on every surface, yellow, fat candles spit and crackled and burned. Only one thing caught his attention, the high, wide bed in the center of the room.

Three wide steps made of black oak planks led up to the bed. Age-blackened rose petals lay crumbled in its corners, and small piles of gray dust drifted here and there. There was a terrible feeling of cold behind him, it chewed into his wounds, his joints, and gnawed at his skin, while heat made the front of him burn and sweat. All around him he heard a steady grinding sound, creaking and cracking, the thump and crash of trees falling, stones collapsing, and the cold grew bigger and bigger.



In the center of the bed, in a fall of dust and crisp dry leaves lay a body in uniform, gray wool coat and gray flannel trousers, a belt and a sword and chestnut hair spread over a pillow. Bright and lean, without a trace of the dust and grime the soldier laid in.

"Jesus fuck--Sam, Sam, Sam—" He leapt up the steps and grabbed his brother by the shoulder and dragged him upright, looped an arm around him. He cupped Sam's cheek and shouted, "Wake up damn it, wake up!" The wind got fiercer and flakes of ice stung Dean's skin. Sam was cold and waxy under his palm and Dean felt despair like a sword shoved under his ribs.

No, no, no, not again." Get up, breathe, come on we gotta go, come on,* Sam!*" He couldn't, there was no way he could come this far and do what he had to and still lose. Dean shook him, slapped him and Sam's head flopped loosely on his neck—Dean slapped him hard and no blood rose to the surface, his face was pale and unblemished.

"Sam." Dean wasn't sure when he'd started crying, when he'd crawled flat on the bed and wrapped himself around Sam's body and clung to him like he'd never let go…flakes dotted his hair, and were piling up on the bed and drifting against him. The cold leached feeling out of his bones. The bed swayed, the floor creaked. Rosalind's domain was decaying, dying and Dean was going to go with it. Like stepping out into space, this was another thing that didn't matter. Sam was gone; he had no reason left to hang on. If he died in this ghost world, he wondered, would he still go to hell?

He levered up onto one elbow, and looked down into Sam's face. So smooth. So serene. Black lashes lay against the curve of his cheek and they were beautiful. Funny, he'd never noticed that about Sam before. His eyes now, he'd loved the shape and color of his brother's eyes since he'd been old enough to notice. He loved the shape of his face, the dimple in his chin, the little bow of his mouth that magically transformed into the widest, sweetest grin ever…ever. Dean leaned forward and pressed his lips against Sam's ice-cold ones, still and slack under his. Dean pressed a little harder, felt them give a bit. He breathed into the kiss, trying to breathe warmth into them. "Sammy," he whispered and kissed him again. This was it, Sam was gone and he was going to follow him, and yeah, he wanted to spend his last moments on earth doing this.

He breathed more warm air against Sam's mouth. His lips were so warm now, as if the warmth was his own. Softer now, they gave more and Dean whimpered. So like a real kiss. He touched the tip of his tongue to them. He pulled back and waited for the growing cold to snatch the heat away. Dean leaned forehead to forehead with his brother and closed his eyes to wait for the end. He licked his chilled lips, and a puff of warm breath dried them. Another puff swept over them and Dean's eyes flew open.

Sam blinked befuddled hazel eyes at him. "What…?"

Dean was frozen in place by a cascade of wildly different emotions, unbelievable joy, and stomach-twisting fear, and confusion and disbelief and hope--he jerked back, and licked guilty swipes at his lip. Fuck the fucking fuck…maybe miracles weren't fairy tales after all. Or was this a hallucination his dying brain was throwing at him? "Fuck—Sam? Are you really…?"

"Where…why am I naked? And it's cold as shit…did you just kiss me?"

"Shut the fuck up. No." Dean spied a little heap of dusty clothing at he foot of the bed…there was something odd about the floor…he shook his head and grabbed what turned out to be the clothes Sam had disappeared in. He shook them out and tossed them at his brother. "Here, get dressed, and we gotta run—something bad's happening."

Sam staggered upright, responding to the tone of Dean's voice even before his brain was really online. He grabbed what Dean threw and dressed, let Dean cram his boots on his feet. "Come on Sam, move it, we gotta—" He had no idea how Sam was going to make it down that stairway…except there was no stairway. They were in the crummy little cabin he'd first stepped foot into. "Sam—seriously, we have to run. I feel it."

"Yeah, yeah, okay…."

They were dashing across the woods, leaping over rubble and smashing through fallen clumps of vine and dead roses. Dry branches snapped underfoot—if they were too smooth and too pale neither of the brothers mentioned it…they ran hard and Dean wouldn't let Sam stop. Couldn't. He had a grip on Sam's wrist that nothing could break. Nothing was going to separate Sam and him. Not until the breath was snatched out of him—until his soul was ripped out of him.

The air was humid, the chill that had chased them out of Rosalind's domain was gone and they were both sweating from the exertion. Mud sucked at their feet, and Dean had to hack their way though brush and vines, and ignore Sam's questions—"Later, Sam, I promise I'll tell you what I know later, but now, we gotta get to the car, okay?"

Suddenly they were out from the thickest part of the woods, and there was a stream in front of them, one Dean didn't remember crossing. The stream's banks were clear of vines and bushes, unmarked mud on both sides. He pulled Sam across it, "Keep running", he shouted and they ran through the water, staggering as it twisted and pulled at their legs. The stream was small but it ran swift and they were wheezing when they reached the other shore.

Dean looked at Sam, and grinned, "Running water," he said.

"Hunh? What's chasing us? Dean…did you really kiss me? Because I had weird dreams, I swear, all night long. Fucking weird dreams, dude…" his eyes went distant and fixed far away. "I dreamt about a woman, and the civil war and…you. I think I dreamt about you," he said, flushed bright red and dropped his eyes.

"Uh, yeah…we need to move, Sam. Its safe enough but I'd feel a damn sight better sitting in the car."

"Unh-hunh. Why'd you kiss me?"

"Oh my god, can you give that a rest? Fucking sleeping Beauty."

Sam was startled into laughing. "All right, let's get to the car. But you're going to tell me everything. You hear me—everything, Dean."

Dean noticed that Sam kept his eyes on him, and grinned that grin that always made Dean's heart skip. "Yeah, yeah. Keep moving, I'll tell ya fairy tales later."




In Which Silver John Has The Last Word

John went a-lookin' for where Dean had left the car, figured he'd set and wait on him and his brother to come back from where they'd gone. He marveled some when he spied that fine car, not half a day out from where Dean had lit out after his brother. It was a powerful fine thing, that Chevrolet. Built at a time that cars were made of good steel and iron, made to last and there was the proof of it, layin' glistenin' in the sun like a shiny new penny. John smiled, he knew love when he saw it.

He hunkered down not far from the car and made himself a fire; put his trusty old percolator to boiling. Might as well be comfortable while he waited on them Winchesters to appear. They'd make it back in one piece, no doubt about it—that Dean wasn't studyin' to do nothing but win. John was that sure of it, he unrolled his blanket, filled his mug, and settled back to wait.


The sun rose, the sun set, and when it rose again, John was shook awake by a crashing in the woods. Wasn't but a minute or two after, two men came stumbling out, looking damn worse for the wear. There came Dean Winchester, he had his arm curled 'bout a boy taller than him. By the way he coddled him, by his height, it was plain that Dean's found his brother. Which meant that the witch was good and dead.

Dean guided his brother towards the car, careful of him as if he was a china teacup, made him to somehow lie down on the back seat. The tall boy, Sam, fussed and argued at being treated like glass. John thought you'd have to be a blind man not to see how much the boy relished it, though….

Dean shut the door on Sam and came a-marching over, his face dark as a thunderstorm, carrying the musket in his hands.

"Here." He said, and put the musket into John's hands. He tried to smooth the thunder from his brow and take the edge off his voice. "I did what was needed. She's dead and I got my brother back." He jerked his chin at the musket. "Damn sorry, I lost the box…it got. Kind of crazy at the end of things." He looked pale, a might sickly. John peered at him. Heck fire, the boy looked plain scared.

John told him, "Like you said, you did what was needed. What else could you do, when the story was always going to end like it did?"

Dean's eyes blazed like a wolf, but his face went beet-red and he swallowed something fierce. He met John's eyes, though and he kept them, kept his chin up proud like. John nodded. That boy was John Winchester through and through. Pride in them, just a hair short of prideful. .

"Something you're trying to tell me, John?" he snapped. This time, weren't ary hint of sir in that tone—he sounded just like a soldier right then, more than ready to brawl some, but Dean had the wrong of it. John had no problem with Dean and his Sam. he'd been through more than most and knew how things could be.

"Not tryin' to tell you air thing, Dean. You're a man grown and more'n ready and capable of takin' holt of your own life. Will you take some coffee with me before you go, you and your Sam?"

Dean flushed a bit redder at that, but just shook his head. "Thank you, no. I'd like to get as much distance between this place and Sam as I can, sorry."

"I understand. This land's going to be healthy again, nothing to worry 'bout in any part of it now, but I can understand you want to get shed of here. Well, good luck to you in the future. Both of you. I'll vow I'll keep you in my prayers."

Dean gnawed at his lip, as if he had a mind to speak, but just thanked John again and headed back to where his car waited. John sat back and listened to the sound of that engine growl to life, listened to it's rumble fade in the west. He pondered that John Winchester had a lot to answer for—but some other court than man's would puzzle that out. It was a cryin' shame, the way he'd turned his sons into swords to protect them but had still left them defenseless in the world. John blew out a sharp breath, tied up his bedroll and threw sand on the fire to damp it.

He didn’t judge what those boys had, wasn't his place to. He shook his head, and promised himself again, to keep Dean Winchester and his poor brother in his prayers.

Hoped it would help.


The End

Comments

[danceswithgary]

It looks like your italics got away from you? *hug*

[danceswithgary]

Never mind. :-D

[roxy]

do you think the italics make it hard to read?

[danceswithgary]

Not for small sections.

I haven't started reading yet - it's been quite a day. :-D

[roxy]

oy, I know! Poor thing! Take your time, love, it's not going anywhere! ;)