SpN: Wayfaring Stranger
10/6/10 11:59 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roxyTitle: 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: 6863
"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.
PART TWO
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: 6863
"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.
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(no subject)
10/7/10 08:37 am (UTC)(no subject)
10/7/10 02:31 pm (UTC)(no subject)
10/8/10 04:15 am (UTC)Then, the story just kept getting better. Sam's situation, John in the woods - I loved his ongoing assessment of Dean. John seemed as though he'd slipped through time somehow. I don't know his character, but I thoroughly enjoyed him.
Your roses were a great way to do scene breaks, and I liked the italics for Sam - because what he was soing through wasn't as based in reality as what Dean was. I wish I could finish tonight, but hopefully will get a chance tomorrow.
(no subject)
10/8/10 04:27 am (UTC)Thank you so much for this terrific comment--I hope you find the rest of the story as interesting! *HUGS*
(no subject)
10/10/10 02:51 pm (UTC)