Work Text:
THEN
Early October, 2003
Goddamn witches. Dean grimaces as he washes—God…he doesn’t even know what, but he’s pretty sure there’s eye-of-newt, rabbit gizzard, and cherry pits in the mix—out of his hair. Fuck he hates witches. They’re always spewing bodily fluids everywhere. It’s downright unsanitary. And why does some poor little bunny always get screwed in the deal? Witches suck. Big time.
Dean’s dressed, feet bare and hair wet, snagging a bottle of Budweiser out of the fridge in the motel room, when his cell phone rings. He sees the caller ID and smiles, flipping the cap off his beer with one hand and answering his cell phone with the other.
“Hiya, Sammy,” he says, before talking a long, well-earned drink.
“Hey Dean.”
Sam sounds exhausted and Dean tells him as much. “You hittin’ the books a bit too hard, huh little brother?”
Sam huffs and Dean can just picture the irritated little v above his nose. “How do you know I haven’t been out partying?” Sam says.
Dean grins at the indignant tone. He props the pillows on the bed farthest from the door up against the bed head and then plops himself down on the green quilt cover, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles.
“Have you been out partying?” he asks, not expecting a yes.
He doesn’t get a yes, but he doesn’t get a no either. He gets a long pause and then a non-committal noise, which he isn’t sure how to read. Huh.
“Well, party on, Garth,” Dean tips his head back and takes another long drink. “And here’s me thinking all study and no play was making Sammy a dull boy.”
“Jerk,” Sam says.
“Bitch,” Dean says fondly.
There’s another long silence.
“So did you play beer pong?” Dean fishes. “Do keg stands? Was the place filled with semi-naked hot college chicks and…and hot tubs?”
Sam laughs. “You’ve watched way too much porn, Dean. No, nothing like that. Just, uh, me and some friends went down to San Francisco for the weekend. It was…interesting.”
“Interesting?” Dean frowns. “Interesting to normal people or interesting to you? Are we talking hot-tub sex with triplets interesting or dusty old libraries interesting?”
Sam huffs again. “Like I said…way too much porn.”
Sam stops there and just as Dean resigns himself to getting no details about his brother’s ‘interesting’ weekend, Sam continues, “It was a friend’s birthday. Her family’s in San Francisco, so she invited a bunch of us to go down there for her party. It wasn’t, you know, a keg stands kind of party. It was…more of a…family…thing.”
There’s something about Sam’s tone that Dean isn’t sure he likes, the way he emphasises family. “Okay…?” he says, drawing out the word; an invitation for Sam to add more.
“Dean?” A long pause. “Have you ever wondered…if…the way Dad raised us…”
And that’s as far as Dean lets him get, because he sees now what’s got his little brother’s panties in a bunch.
“Dude, stop,” Dean doesn’t try to curb his irritation. “So we ain’t exactly the Bradys. So what? You can’t compare us to some boring, suburban family. So you missed out on some…some boring, suburban crap over the years; at least you know what’s out there. At least you can keep yourself safe.”
“Can I?” Sam says softly. “Dad’s pretty stingy with his ‘need to know’ bullshit and some of the things…” he trails off.
“What are you trying to say, Sam?”
Sam sighs. “I’m trying to say…what if Dad’s been keeping valuable information to himself? And what if…what if we’ve been killing things that didn’t need killing?”
“We kill monsters, Sam,” Dean says firmly.
“Do we? And who decides who the monsters are? Maybe we’re the monsters, Dean. After all, we sure drop a lot of bodies.”
Dean can feel himself getting a headache. “Are you trying to tell me that werewolves aren’t monsters? That revenants and ghouls don’t need putting down?”
“Revenants, sure. No redeeming features. But werewolves are just people most of the time. Maybe there’s an alternative to killing them, if only we bothered to look for it. And witches…”
Dean cuts him off. “…are messing around with some pretty dark forces that most of them don’t even understand. Or else they’re crystal gazing, new age hippie wannabes who aren’t actually tapping into any kind of power.”
“Or maybe,” Sam says, “they actually know more than you do and you just bought into the propaganda?”
Dean puts his beer on the lamp table and sits up a little straighter, ruminates for a moment on his brother’s use of the word interesting earlier. “You better not be messing around with a coven of witches, Sammy.”
Dean hears the rumble of a big engine and then headlamps light up the motel room.
Dad’s back with their take out.
“You hear me, little brother?” Dean grits out, because Sam hasn’t answered him and he needs to get this wrapped before Dad walks into the room. “I’d hate to have to come up there and gank you and your friends.”
He’s joking. Mostly. Not so much about the friends, he’d kill them in a heartbeat if they were trying to get Sammy tied up with something…satanic. But he’d never hurt Sam.
“I hear you, Dean. Loud and clear.”
Sam hangs up on him and Dad walks into the room with burgers and fries and a six pack of Budweiser.
It’s much later when Dean finally gets a chance to sneak out and call Sam back. The call goes straight through to voicemail. And yeah, okay, Dean gets it. Sam is pissed at him. Dean guesses he’d better give his brother a day or two to cool off.
Dad moves them on to Albuquerque to deal with a skinwalker, which is a cluster fuck from Day One and leaves Dean thinking that his brother might’ve had a point. Their Dad has some serious blind spots and he doesn’t like to share intel.
In typical John Winchester fashion, Dad stomps into the middle of a situation he doesn’t fully understand convinced that only he knows the right way to deal with it. He manages to piss off everybody, and Dean gets stuck mediating between his Dad and the team of Navajo hunters who were already on the job. They graciously allow Dean to be part of the ritual that gets rid of the skinwalker. Mostly, Dean thinks, to teach his father a lesson.
Dad is pissed at being kept out of the loop. He makes some pointed comments about Dean not needing him anymore and suggests that maybe they should be doing more hunts apart. And then he gets in his truck and mutters something about having to ‘take care of something’ in Minnesota.
Dean’s not going to lie; he actually breathes a sigh of relief as he watches his father’s truck kick up dust in its wake. He loves his father, but man, John Winchester can be an intense, demanding asshole at times.
And then, finally, he tries Sam again. The message he hears, freezes the blood in in his veins.
We're sorry; you have reached a number that has been disconnected or is no longer in service. If you feel you have reached this recording in error, please check the number and try your call again.
NOW
Early October, 2005
Dean loves New Orleans.
It’s a tourist town and normally that’s not his jam. But New Orleans has music; the real genuine thing, live and in color, pouring out of open doorways along with the air-conditioning.
It also has frozen daiquiris served in plastic containers that look like hand grenades. Usually, Dean’s a beer and whiskey man, but when his damp tee shirt is stuck to his back and he can’t get cool outdoors no matter how much he sweats, there’s something about the icy, melon-flavored drink that really hits the spot.
Dean got addicted to hand grenades the first time he did a job here with his Dad. It was early August, he was eighteen, and they were hunting a revenant.
Dean had a shiny new fake ID saying he was twenty-one, which meant he could buy his own alcohol and not just drink with his Dad—something that was allowed in Louisiana once you reached 18. Dean had hit the tourist strip their first night in the city and met a girl on a post-high-school-graduation holiday with a group of friends. She was looking to punch her V card before she started college and Dean was happy to help. He pulled out every trick he’d learned from more experienced women to make sure she was never going to forget her first time.
Dean frowns. He’s a little sorry that he can’t remember her name now. Anyway. There are always plenty of women on vacation in New Orleans, looking for the best sex of their life with a handsome, unattached drifter. It’s like Valentine’s Day, every day, on Bourbon Street.
New Orleans always feels like a holiday to Dean, even if he’s here for a job. Partly that’s the sex, booze, music and amazing food. And partly it’s because the supernatural is pretty much an open secret in New Orleans; once you step away from the tourist zone, anyway.
That job with the revenant? While his dad had been doing research at New Orleans Public library with Sam or stomping around St Louis Cemetery No. 1, Dean had been interviewing the witnesses. A handful of patrons and two of the staff down at Tropical Isle had all sworn to God they’d seen former employee David Decuir walk purposefully past the bar wearing the very same suit he’d been buried in two weeks prior.
Bar patrons don’t always make the most reliable witnesses, but the staff hadn’t been drinking. And besides, the stories were all pretty consistent; what most people had noticed was the smell of rotting flesh and David’s purple-and-black mottled, flapping skin.
The revenant had been seen a week ago, three nights running, but didn’t seem to have been seen since. Dean figured, what with the purposeful walking, that he’d had to be going somewhere and it had been a legitimate excuse to bar hop, so he’d done exactly that, trying to trace David’s route along Bourbon Street. Slowly, he’d tracked the revenant’s apparent route from St Louis Cemetery No. 1, where, Dean learned, his family had had an oven vault for generations, down Conti Street to Bourbon Street, up Bourbon to Tropical Isle, past Marie Laveau’s House of Voodoo, and then up Dumaine Street, through Louis Armstrong Park and Congo Square and out into The Treme.
Eventually, he’d ended up outside a small restaurant with white clapboard siding, bright yellow café curtains in the big front windows, and a haint blue door. It was right on the corner of where Dumaine crosses N Conti, but despite that, Dean had almost missed it. Would have, if not for the faint buzz of…something…that had made him pause.
A black woman wearing a flowery blue and white dress and a blue head scarf had been standing in the doorway, arms folded.
“Took you long enough,” she said. “Come on in, Dean Winchester. We need to talk about David.”
And that was how Dean met Maman Odette, proprietor of Odette’s and respected Mambo.
Now, if ever a case takes him to New Orleans, Odette is his first port of call. Most of the time, her people have the issue under control, which means he can enjoy a week off and then tell Dad the hunt is handled. If they need his help, she’ll tell him.
Dean’s learned a lot from Maman Odette and her people. He’s learned that where witches and other practitioners of magic are concerned, there are a lot of shades of grey. He’s learned that a lot of what his Dad had been taught about witches by other hunters when he’d first gotten into the trade, had been informed by both racism and sexism.
Dean still hates witches, but he’s refined his concept of what he means by ‘witch’.
It’s late afternoon when Dean pulls into his motel room’s allotted parking space. La Reine Motel is just outside the French Quarter, which means it’s cheaper, but still close enough for Dean to walk to the Bourbon Street nightlife, as well as to Odette’s.
Once he’s showered the road off of himself and dressed in a pair of jeans without holes and his best Led Zeppelin tee-shirt, Dean makes his way to Odette’s. His doesn’t bother to call ahead; she knows he’s coming.
Odette greets him at the door like always. Like always, she’s dressed in shades of blue and white and her perfume reminds him of a sea breeze coming off the ocean.
“Dean Winchester,” she greets him. “I see you got my message.”
“Maman,” he says, kissing her on both cheeks. He pulls back with a smile and a raised eyebrow, “Still don’t get why you can’t just call or text like a normal person.”
Her grin is unrepentant. “’Cause I ain’t a normal person, boy. And I don’t like to rely on technology either. If I send the message right on into your brain, least I know you got it.”
Dean concedes the point with a tilt of his head and follows her into the depths of her restaurant, to a table against the back wall. Odette slides in beside him and a moment later her daughter Aimee comes out with two glasses of spiced rum on the rocks and a selection of fried shrimp and roast beef po’ boy sliders. Dean’s eyes light up. He helps himself to a shrimp po’boy and takes a big bite, closing his eyes and almost moaning at the spicy explosion of flavors across his tongue. When he opens his eyes again, Odette is watching him with a fondly amused expression.
“Do ya’ll need to get a room?” she says slyly.
Dean swallows and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Can’t beat your cooking, Maman,” he says.
She tries to hide her self-satisfied smile, but Dean sees it anyway.
“So you wanna tell me why you summoned me?”
Odette sighs and picks up a po’boy. “Eat first.”
Between them they demolish the whole plate and finish their rum. Aimee clears the plates and brings them out a basket of beignets and a café au lait each. Finally, Odette leans back in her seat, satisfied, and eyes Dean speculatively.
“Not so long ago,” she says, “one of ours came home. She’d been adopted, wasn’t raised in the faith, but she’d always felt…different. Always longed for…something that she didn’t know how to name. Her new folks had moved her away, up to Illinois, but the spirits led her home.”
Dean raises an eyebrow.
“She got into college,” Odette clarifies, “chose Tulane because she knew she’d been born here. Came looking for family.”
Dean nods; helps himself to another beignet.
“She was favored by Filomez,” Odette adds.
Dean wipes sugar from his top lip. “So what ‘appened to her?”
Odette frowns at him and Dean swallows the mouthful of beignet he’s chewing with a sheepish smile.
“We had a ceremony last week,” Odette says, “and Filomez couldn’t ride her. None of the Loa could. Theo called up Kalfu, asked his advice. Kalfu said there was something in the girl’s blood, something that had been dormant, but was now active. He said it was something to do with your people, that it was powerful magic, and he wasn’t sure how to go about getting rid of it.”
“My people?” Dean frowns. “You mean hunters?”
Odette shakes her head. “Kalfu said it was something…Abrahamic. He talked to one of his…cousins in their ranks,” Odette wrinkles her nose, “and she said that one of theirs…someone powerful…had marked the girl.”
“Abrahamic? Cousins?” Dean’s starting to feel progressively out of his depth.
Odette hums impatiently. “Kalfu summoned a Demon of the Crossroads.”
Dean’s mouth falls open. “Kalfu’s related to demons?”
Odette gives him a pointed look and he closes his mouth. “Kalfu has other names,” she says. “Some call him Maître Carrefour. He’s Loa of the crossroads; the Petro aspect of Papa Legba.”
And okay, Dean can see why maybe Kalfu would consider the crossroads demons some kind of cousin; it’s still a little freaky though.
“So…the crossroads demon told him that some powerful, uh, Abrahamic demon did some kind of magic which affected your girl’s blood and now the Loa can’t ride her?” Dean summarizes.
Odette nods.
“Demons lie, you know. How sure is Kalfu that he got the truth?”
Odette’s smile is unsettling. “Ain’t no common demon gonna be lyin’ to Kalfu. There’s a reason he’s syncretized with Satan. He’s powerful.”
Dean swallows.
“And Kalfu,” Odette continues, “he told us we’d need your help.”
Dean remembers his coffee and reaches for it, taking a sip of the creamy caffeine and chicory brew, letting it settle him. He licks his lips. “I’m not exactly…religious,” he says. “If your Loa say that you need a Hunter, there’s plenty Hunters who know more about that sort of thing than me. You’d be better off talking to Jim Murphy, he’s a Pastor. Or Rufus Turner. He’s Jewish.”
Odette is shaking her head. “Kalfu didn’t tell us we’d need a hunter’s help, boy; he asked for you by name.”
And that? Chills Dean to his core.
Dean’s digesting the fact that one of the more powerful Loa in the Petro Pantheon knows his name when the subtle scent of ocean that always surrounds Odette becomes overbearingly strong and her eyes roll back in her head.
“He’s coming, chile, I can smell him on the wind,” Odette says in a voice that’s older and deeper than her own, “When he arrives, you listen. You can stop this, but only if you work together.”
She reaches out and grasps the bullhorn pendant that Sam gave him in one hand and then murmurs something in Haitian Creole, before tracing out a symbol on his chest with her other hand. Dean feels cool tranquillity settle over him.
Odette shudders and lowers her head.
“What the hell?” Dean breathes.
Odette shakes her head. “Mami Wata, I think. Or maybe Yemaya. Not strictly speaking…” she trails off, pauses. "I usually serve La Sirene, but this is serious business, seems everyone is keeping an eye on things,” she pauses. “And looking out for you too. That was a protection spell she put on you.”
Dean licks his lips. “Who’s coming?” he asks. “Is it the demon who started all this?”
But Odette doesn’t know.
There’s nothing waiting for Dean back at his motel, so he takes a walk through Louis Armstrong Park and Congo Square, pausing to say a silent thank you to the spirits at the Eggun Tree, where Odette and her family come to leave offerings. Dean can see oranges, pineapples and pumpkins nestled against its trunk and there’s a tiny pumpkin vine sprouting from the seeds of a previous offering, new life growing in the shade of the big, old tree.
From there he makes his way out of the park, crosses Rampart Street, and wanders down to Bourbon Street, meandering past bars, cafés and restaurants until he gets to Tropical Isle, where he orders a hand grenade for himself, for old times’ sake.
The late afternoon sun is shining brightly, the sky is blue, and Dean guesses it’s in the low eighties; warm, but not particularly humid, as he strolls back to his motel, sucking on his frozen drink, deep in thought.
He doesn’t know much about demons, so he makes a mental note to call Pastor Jim as soon as he’s back at the motel. He thinks about calling Dad, but Dad’s been flaky lately. Dean hasn’t even heard from him for two weeks and he’s not returning Dean’s calls either. Frankly, Dean’s starting to wonder whether he should be worried. He frowns. Maybe when that spirit said someone was coming, she meant his Dad? Maybe she was telling him that he’d have to work with his Dad on this.
Dean tosses his empty hand grenade cup in the next trash can he passes and then gets out his cell phone and calls his Dad. He gets voicemail again.
He waits to call Pastor Jim until he’s back at the motel. He settles himself down on the bed farthest from the door and makes the call.
What Pastor Jim knows about demons is fairly limited. He knows they can’t set foot on hallowed ground; he knows holy water burns them; he knows they flinch at the word Christo; and he knows that it’s possible to expel them from a host’s body with an exorcism. He’s not sure if all of those things work on all demons and he spends quite some time hypothesizing on the likelihood that there might be different levels of demon, some more powerful than others.
He tells Dean he’ll do some further research on the Denizens of Hell, and that no, he hasn’t heard from John recently.
Dean calls Bobby next, who wants to know why he’s asking about demons. Dean doesn’t know how Bobby feels about voodoo, so he hedges, just tells him that he’s working a gig in New Orleans and someone had mentioned demons so he wanted to know how to deal with them.
He gets pretty much the same information from Bobby that he got from Pastor Jim, along with an offer to come down and help, if Dean needs him to.
Dean hesitates, almost takes him up on it, but Bobby can’t be the one who’s coming, according to the spirit, because whoever that was, they were already on their way and Bobby’s still at home. And Dean doesn’t want to expose Odette and her people to a hunter who may see them as something evil that needs killing.
By the time he’s finished talking to Bobby the sun has set and Dean’s hungry again. There are a bunch of local takeout menus on the nightstand and Dean is thinking about calling for a pizza when there’s a thud at his door.
Dean isn’t expecting anyone. Except for maybe the mysterious ‘He’, who is supposedly coming, so he opens up his weapons duffle and gets out his Colt .45.
He crosses cautiously to the motel door. There’s no peep hole, so he slides the security chain on and then slowly cracks the door open. It immediately falls as wide as the chain will allow, because Sam is leaning against it.
Sam. His brother. With a purple and swollen eye, bloody nostrils and upper lip, and a large gash in his forehead that has left crimson streaks down the right side of his face. He’s also holding his left arm like his shoulder’s been dislocated.
“You’re supposed to be at school,” Dean says.
Which, okay, that was a stupid thing to say. But Sam. Is at his door. They haven’t spoken for two years and now he’s just…here.
Sam smiles wanly. “Hi Dean. Can I come in?”
Dean wants to say yes, but first he has to check something.
“Christo,” he says.
Sam looks surprised, but he doesn’t flinch.
“I’m not a demon,” he says.
And now it’s Dean turn to look surprised. The Sam who left for college knew exactly squat about demons.
“Then what are you?” he says, bringing up his pistol.
Sam tries to straighten. “I’m your brother,” he says. “I’ve just…learned a few things in the last couple years. Dean…please…I need your help.”
Sammy needing him is not something that Dean can ignore, but first he has to be sure. He tells Sam to hold on a moment and goes and gets a silver knife from his weapons duffle. Sam sighs, but dutifully sticks his hand through the gap in the door and Dean slices his finger. Sam doesn’t react.
“Okay,” Dean says, “Not a shifter. I’ve just gotta,” he gestures at the chain and Sam steps back so that Dean can close the door, slide the chain off and then open the door fully.
Sam staggers into the room and collapses into his arms. Dean almost goes down under the weight of him.
“Sam?” he says. “Sammy?”
But Sam is out cold.
Dean hauls his brother over to the closest bed and dumps him on top of it. He organizes his long limbs and takes advantage of Sam’s lack of consciousness to pop his shoulder back in. And then he gets a wet face-washer from the bathroom and drags the first aid kit over. He wipes the blood from his brother’s face and puts a butterfly bandage on his temple. He lifts Sam’s tee shirt and looks at the bruising mottling his abdomen and chest. Son of a bitch. What the hell has Sam been up to? It looks like he went several rounds with a real heavy hitter. And Sam, he may have been out of the game, may have spent the last few years as a college boy, but he’s had the same training as Dean and he’s grown into a big man. Someone—or something—that can do this much damage to Sam, is serious trouble.
Dean is desperate to see if Sam is hurt anywhere else, and he’s internally debating whether or not Sam will be pissed at him if he takes his jeans off when he notices the top of something sticking out of Sam’s front jeans pocket. He reaches in and pulls out…a hex bag.
Son of a bitch.
Dean fishes in his own jeans pocket for his zippo, but before he can light the hex bag up his brother grips his wrist, hard.
“Don’t,” Sam says, his eyes wide open and imploring. “That’s keeping me…off his radar.”
“Off who’s radar?” Dean can’t help his hard tone. He doesn’t like Sammy playing around with hex bags.
“It’s not a hex bag,” Sam says.
Dean raises an eyebrow.
“No, I can’t read minds,” Sam says. “I just know how you think. And yeah, it’s a mojo bag, but like I said, it’s keeping me safe, not hurting me.”
“Safe from what? And off who’s radar?”
Sam sighs and sits up, slowly and carefully. He tests out his shoulder and gives Dean a grateful smile. He touches his face with his fingertips and thanks Dean for the butterfly bandage.
“Sam,” Dean says. “Answer me. What’s going on?”
Sam glances around the room. “Where’s Dad?”
Dean shrugs. “He’s working his own gig. Haven’t seen him for a couple weeks.”
Sam’s eyes widen. “Dad lets you hunt on your own?”
Dean raises an eyebrow. “Dude, I’m 26. Stop avoiding the question.”
“I’m not. I…” Sam sighs again. “It’s a long story,” he nods at the take out menus. “We should probably get some food.”
Half an hour later they’re settled with a family-sized pepperoni, a family-sized meatlovers and a family-sized Hawaiian, because Sam is a freak who likes pineapple on pizzas.
Dean lets Sam eat a couple of slices and then he nudges him with his foot. “C’mon, Sam,” he says. “Talk to me.”
Sam closes his eyes and when he opens them again his irises are a shimmering gold.
Dean drops his slice and scrambles away from the table. “What are you?” he demands, his voice shaking.
“Dean, please,” Sam says. “I need you to listen. Can you do that?”
When he arrives, you listen. You can stop this, but only if you work together
“I…yeah,” Dean comes back to sit back down. “I can do that.”
Sam smiles. “You’ve got traces of magic all through your aura,” he says. “I was worried. Last time we talked…”
“Last time we talked, I was a dick,” Dean says. “I’m sorry.”
Sam blinks and his eyes return to normal. “Phoebe said we could trust you,” he murmurs.
Dean’s starting to feel out of his depth again. “Phoebe? Girlfriend?”
Sam’s eyes dance with amusement. “Mentor,” he says. “Ok, so, cliff notes version. Last time we talked I was in San Francisco. A group of us went down for Brittany’s birthday. Turns out that Brittany’s from a family of Cunning-Folk,” he pauses, sees Dean’s look of confusion. “They also call themselves white witches or hedge witches, although they don’t really like the word witch. Traditionally, they’re healers who fight against malevolent magic. Anyway, it turned out that one of the guys in our group, Brady, was possessed. By a demon. Brittany’s Aunt Phoebe trapped him and exorcised him and,” Sam falters. “Me and Brady were roommates first year. He’d changed…I’d put it down to stress. To drugs. But, uh, nope, apparently it was demonic possession.”
Sam picks a piece of pineapple off of his pizza and pops it in his mouth.
“Phoebe thought I might’ve been possessed too,” he says after he’s swallowed. “She tried to trap and exorcise both of us. I wasn’t possessed, but I didn’t seem too fazed by the whole process, so I got, uh, interrogated. They weren’t too happy when they found out I was a hunter,” Sam pauses. “They’ve had problems with hunters in the past. Anyway, long story short, they’d been seeing signs for a while. Demon signs. Cattle mutilations, certain weather patterns. And I tripped a spell they had set up to detect demons, but turned out not to be possessed. They were…interested in me.”
Dean had gone hot with fury at the word ‘interrogated’, but now he goes goosebump cold. “What the fuck? Why did you trip their spell?”
Sam draws a deep breath and it looks to Dean like he’s steeling himself. “Turns out my blood isn’t 100% human.”
He looks hard at Dean, but appears relieved by what Dean imagines must be his completely bewildered expression. “You didn’t know,” Sam pauses, fiddles with the edge of the bedspread. “Dad knew.”
Dean’s mouth draws into a tight, thin line. “How do you know that?”
“The demon that was in Brady. It said a few things before we sent it back to Hell.”
“Demons lie, Sam.”
Sam makes a non-committal hum. “And sometimes they tell the truth. It depends what’s going to hurt you the most.”
Dean swallows at the pain in his brother’s voice. “So what are you telling me, Sammy? That you’re not human? That you’re not really my brother? That’s bullshit! I remember going to see you at the hospital when you were born. There’s no way you’re not human.”
“I’m human,” Sam says. “Mostly. We think a demon did something when I was a baby. That it somehow triggered some epigenetic changes in me, possibly because I was already predisposed to…certain things…”
Dean stares at his baby brother for a full minute and then huffs. “Gee, Sam, do you think you could vague it up for me some more?”
Sam’s smile is a shade rueful. “I have a very strong aptitude for magic and I can see auras and magic and life forces,” he ducks his head, “that whole glowy eyes thing? It allows me to see the world through a different lens,” he purses his lips, “Literally, I guess.”
Deans nods. He’d sure as Hell been wondering about that, and had been waiting to ask.
“And then shortly after my 22nd birthday,” Sam continues, “I developed psychic visions and telekinesis. There are others like me too. And not everyone’s powers are the same.”
“Powers,” Dean echoes. He shakes his head. “So how’d you end up here in New Orleans, looking like you went ten rounds with Mike Tyson?”
Sam’s eyes shutter.
It takes Dean until well past midnight to get the whole story; and to be honest he’s fairly sure it’s not the whole story; but it’s a large enough chunk of it for him to put a few things together. There are a few things that Sam glossed over a bit, didn’t explain too well, but Dean will plug those plot holes eventually; he knows how to get his brother talking.
The most shocking part of the tale is that Sam dropped out of Stanford eighteen months ago.
After all Sam’s fights with Dad and his determination to go to college, no matter what, Dean is honestly a little hurt that he quit, not to hunt with his brother again, but to learn how to become a demon-fighting witch.
Dean is also beginning to see why Sam has been so pissed at Dad; there’s a lot he hasn’t told them. The Men of Letters? The Judah Initiative? The Grand Coven? There’s a whole supernatural fighting world out there aside from hunters that Dad found out about, but never bothered to mention to his sons. In fact, he seems to have actively kept them away from it, and from other hunters, as much as he could. Dean didn’t even know there was a hunter Roadhouse despite the fact that he’s been hunting on his own on-and-off for the last couple years. You’d think somebody would’ve mentioned it to him, but apparently Dad put the word out that his sons were to be kept away from the Roadhouse on pain of John Winchester’s everlasting wrath.
And that’s not the worst of it. Dad knew the thing that killed Mom was a demon. He knew that it did something to Sam. Sam saw him talking about it to another psychic. Some woman called Missouri.
Okay, so maybe Sam dropping out of Stanford isn’t the most shocking part.
Dean looks at Sam…really looks at him…and isn’t sure what to make of the expression on his face. It’s a weird combination of hopeful, resigned, angry, desperate and sad. It’s almost like he’s already decided that Dean either doesn’t believe him, or does, but will throw him out because of the whole ‘witch’ thing. Dean rubs a hand across his jaw. It’s pretty sad that he let things get to this state. He’s going to have his work cut out for him, mending his relationship with his brother.
“Sammy?” Dean reaches out and brushes Sam’s wrist with his fingertips.
Sam swallows. The poor kid looks exhausted.
“You’re my brother,” Dean says. “I know we’ve had our disagreements. I know I can be a dick, but there is nothing, past or present, that I would ever put in front of you. I’m still not clear how you found me…I’m guessing magic…”
Sam nods. “Tracking spell.”
“But I’m glad you did,” he pauses. “Have you talked to Phoebe or any of them since you left?”
Sam shakes his head. “After that vision I had, I needed to keep the demons away from them, so I figured it was better if I made a clean break, no contact.”
Dean chews on his bottom lip while he thinks. “So far you’ve contacted three of these…special children…and you did it by tracking house fires that killed the parent of a six month old baby?”
Sam nods.
“I’m impressed,” Dean says, and Sam ducks his head to hide his proud smile. “Okay, so, to recap, you found Scott who can electrocute people with his bare hands, but he’s also cuckoo for cocoa puffs and doesn’t want anything to do with the yellow-eyed man who visits him in his dreams; then you found Max Miller who is also,” he whistles and circles his finger beside his head, “because his Dad’s a drunk who blames him for his mom dying when he was a baby and regularly beats him up. He can move things with his mind, but he doesn’t believe in demons and he’s too unstable to be any use to us in fighting this demon.”
“Us?” Sam says. “So you’ll help me?”
Dean sighs. “Which part of there’s nothing I’d put before you did you not understand? You’re my brother. I’d kill for you and I’d die for you, so I’ll sure as shit hunt demons with you.”
Sam smiles.
“So, uh, the third guy, what was his name again?”
“Jake Talley. He was on medical leave from the army because of migraines.”
Right. The guy posted to Afghanistan. One of the other soldiers flipped his vehicle on a bad stretch of road outside Kabul and got pinned underneath. Jake lifted it off him like it was nothing. Everybody said it was a fluke adrenaline thing, but later on, when he was stone-cold calm, Jake went and bench-pressed 800 pounds or something. Sam found him and talked to him, explained about the demon and Jake seemed on board with joining the fight, but when Sam went back the next day, Jake attacked him with his super strength. Sam isn’t sure what changed. His best guess is that the demon got to him somehow.
Dean looks thoughtful. “So that mojo bag stops the demon from seeing you directly, but it can still see you through other people? Like maybe it checked in on Jake and saw you in his memories?”
Sam nods. “I think so. That’s my current theory, anyway. It might only work with the special children, or it could be able to delve into anyone’s mind,” Sam shift in his chair. “It won’t be able to see you though; someone put a heavy-duty protection spell on you.”
Dean narrows his eyes and looks at Sam suspiciously. The kid sounds hella impressed and also a little jealous.
“Tomorrow I’ll take you to meet the woman who did it,” he scrunches his nose. Had Odette actually performed the spell, or had it been the spirit riding her? “Or at least kind of, anyway. It’s complicated.”
Sam laughs. “With us, it always is.”
Odette opens the door to Dean before he’s even had a chance to knock, but when she sees Sam her eyes widen in what can only be described as fear and she takes an involuntary step back.
“Maman,” Sam ducks his head and holds his hands out palms up.
He stands perfectly still and Dean watches as Odette collects herself and looks up at him.
The air around them practically crackles and Dean can’t move, can barely breathe. There’s electricity in his head and black spots dancing in front of his eyes and just when he thinks he’s going to pass out, the tension breaks with an audible snap and Dean sags, gasping for breath.
“What the Hell?” he wheezes; hands on his knees and his head down.
When he looks up, both Odette and Sam are looking at him with alarm.
“What was that?” he says, straightening up.
Sam shakes his head, muttering apologies and Odette smiles faintly at him, before turning back to Sam.
“Sam Winchester,” she says, sounding stunned. “I did not see you coming.”
From a psychic of her strength, that’s really something.
Odette ushers them in and turns the open sign to closed.
There are two couples, and a man sitting by himself, all enjoying a morning coffee and breakfast pastries, and every one of them notes the turning of the sign with a sigh.
“Pack everything to go, Chere,” Odette says to Aimee, waving at the couples. “Breakfast’s on the house this morning.”
She takes Sam and Dean to a table for six at the back of the restaurant and Dean watches as both couples are bustled out the door with their boxed up breakfast. They don’t seem surprised, which makes sense. This isn’t a restaurant for tourists. For a start, no one can find it unless Odette wants them to, which means the couples are most likely vodouisants or at least in the know. And if that’s the case, it’s very unlikely they missed that showdown on the doorstep. Which reminds him.
“Is anyone gonna tell me what that was back there?”
The question is greeted with silence. Odette and Sam look at each other and then Sam shrugs.
“Just getting to know each other…psychically.”
The man who was sitting by himself snorts and Dean looks up to find him sliding into the seat opposite with a café au lait in one hand.
“That’s one way of putting it,” the man says. He offers Dean his hand. “Theo. We haven’t met.”
They shake and Dean shoots Odette a bewildered look.
“Theo’s my brother,” she says. “And one of our priests.”
A moment later Aimee joins them, with a huge basket of beignets and a pitcher of Milk Punch.
“I called Mirlande. She’s bringing Aniyah.”
She sits opposite Sam, but won’t look at him. Dean didn’t fail to notice that Theo didn’t offer Sam his hand either. And Sam himself is fairly subdued.
“Okay, time out,” Dean says. “What have you all got against my brother?”
No one answers.
Finally, Sam says, “They’re just…wary, that’s all.”
Theo harrumphs. “Thanks for not saying scared. Woulda been more accurate,” he turns to Dean. “You have no idea how powerful your brother is, do you?”
Sam’s doing that thing where he tries to make himself look like a tiny harmless puppy, but no one seems to be buying it.
Dean turns to face his brother. “Sam?”
Sam shrugs. “I told you what I am. What I can do. I showed Maman. They picked it up from her,” he shifts in his seat. “They want me to talk to Kalfu.”
“Speaking of which…”
Theo gets up and moves a couple of tables and Odette starts to draw vévés on the floor in chalk.
Dean swallows. He’s known Odette and some of her people for nearly eight years now, but he’s never been invited to a ceremony before.
Another two women come in from the staff only door that leads to the kitchen and Sam’s eyes snap to the younger one immediately. Dean follows his gaze and his first thought is that those elbow-length black silk gloves are a weird choice, given the weather. Sam though, has gone still and stiff and is frowning. He seems about to speak, but then his expression smooths out and the poised for action tension leaves his muscles.
"Aniyah," Sam says.
The young woman stills.
"I'm Sam. This is my brother, Dean."
Aniyah nods. "The hunters. And you're psychic," she tilts her head. "And you stink of power."
Sam's laugh sounds a little broken, Dean thinks.
"Nice job with the mojo bag, by the way," Sam says. "Not the same as mine, but it’s doing the job.”
Theo snorts. “You think you’re the only one who knows a thing or two?”
“No, of course not,” Sam says. “Just noting the differences; comparing.”
"Bondye," Odette sits up straight from where she's drawing on the wooden floor with chalk, "You got power, boy."
"What powers did you get?" Dean asks Aniyah. "I'm guessing those gloves got something to do with it?"
"Telepathy," Aniyah says. "Activated by touch," she screws up her nose. "Ain't as much fun as it sounds, believe me."
Theo says something in Haitian Creole and Aniyah and Mirlande go and stand beside him near the far wall. Aimee gets up from the table and joins them.
Dean’s been here half a dozen times at least, but he’s never noticed the altar against that wall, right behind where Odette drew the vévés. Aimee fetches a couple of drums from behind the counter and hands one to Mirlande.
Aimee and Mirlande beat the drums fast and hard, off-beat from each other, in a rhythm that Dean feels not just in his bones, but in his very soul.
Odette and Theo begin to chant and Dean’s head begins to ache. Sam puts a soothing hand on the back of his neck and leans in close.
“They’re drawing the Loa in,” he murmurs. “Asking the guardian of the crossroads to let the spirits come down and choose a horse.”
“How do you know?” Dean asks.
Sam shrugs. “I don’t know Vodou per se, only what we learned as kids, which was mostly wrong. But I do know ritual magic.”
Odette picks up a rattle shaped like a gourd from underneath the altar. It’s wooden, unpainted, but covered with colored beads and pieces of bone, with a bell attached to the handle. Both Odette and Theo begin to dance on top of the vévés, hips shaking and feet sliding, as Odette shakes the rattle, both of them still chanting.
Aniyah disappears into the kitchen and comes out a moment later with a live chicken and a big ass knife.
“No,” Dean feels himself pale.
Sam raises an eyebrow at him. “Magic has to get its energy from somewhere,” he says in a tone that suggests that killing a chicken is perfectly reasonable. “And ritual sacrifice has been used by most religions at one time or another. Christians don’t slaughter lambs on the altar any more, but they used to in ancient times.”
Dean’s fairly confident that Odette will turn the chicken into a meal later, and he’s also fairly confident that he’ll enjoy eating it, but that doesn’t mean he enjoys this part of the ceremony.
The chicken’s blood is drained into a bowl and…yeah, Dean doesn’t want to watch people drinking chicken’s blood either; that’s gotta be downright unsanitary.
A moment later, Theo falls to the floor, shaking and when he gets up, Dean can tell immediately that he’s not looking at Theo any more.
Not-Theo comes and sits opposite Sam. He’s practically oozing power and Dean feels his hair stand on end.
“Kalfu,” Sam says respectfully.
Kalfu smiles and Dean shudders at his red-stained teeth.
“I been looking into this demon taint, on account they damaged one of ours,” Kalfu says. “You put a lot of it together already, son, but I can give you a name. And I can give you a reason. The question is, what can you give me?”
Sam’s eyes narrow. “What do you want?”
“Two things,” Kalfu says. “An Alliance, between your people and mine. And…”
His eyes slide across to Dean.
“No,” Sam says.
“Ogou wants him.”
“Well he can’t have him,” Sam grits.
“Uh, guys?” Dean says. “Who’s Ogou? And what exactly does he want?”
“He’s a Loa,” Odette says. “Loa of the Hunt. And he wants to ride you.”
Dean’s eyes widen. “Me? I’m not a vodouisant.”
“Don’t need to be,” Kalfu says. “Just have to say, yes.”
“No,” Sam says again.
Kalfu sighs. “Not your call.”
Sam’s grin is unsettling. “Isn’t it?”
He mutters a few words in a language Dean doesn’t understand.
Kalfu looks less than impressed. “The stakes are higher than you think, boy.”
Sam’s glare is probably terrifying if you aren’t the Loa most commonly syncretized with Satan.
“You say you want an Alliance,” Sam bites off. “So tell us the stakes. Tell us why we should agree.”
Kalfu looks conflicted, as if Sam has forced him to play a hand earlier than he would’ve liked. “Fair enough,” he says finally. “From what my Abrahamic cousins tell me; from what the second-sighted Loa and the psychics tell me; from what I can piece together myself from looking into the gaps, well, it ain’t looking too good for any of us.”
By the time Kalfu finishes explaining, there’s nothing left in the pitcher of Milk Punch and Dean isn’t sure whether his headache’s from the punch or from the bombshell that Kalfu just dropped on them.
“The Apocalypse?” Dean repeats. “Like…the Apocalypse Apocalypse? Rain of toads? Rivers of blood?”
Kalfu nods.
“And Heaven and Hell are working together?”
Kalfu nods again.
Dean scowls. “Well ain’t that just peachy. Daddy heads outta town and the kids all decide to throw an apocalypse.”
“And the special children,” Sam adds, “we’re supposed to be vessels for Arch-Demons to serve as generals in Lucifer’s army?”
Kalfu nods “I’m told Arch-demon possession takes a little preparation. They ain’t like your regular demon. Of course, one of you probably gonna be the vessel for Lucifer.”
Sam looks like he might throw up.
“And the angels gonna need vessels too,” Kalfu adds. “As I understand it, they have to ask for permission, though.”
“Oh this is awesome,” Dean snarks. “So us humans are all just hand puppets for the coming war?”
“Screw that,” Aniyah says, raising her chin. “I ain’t gonna be a vessel for some damned demon! I’m a vodouisant! I’m a cheval for Filomez. Your demons can go right on back to their Hell! ”
“You said it, sister,” Dean says. “There’s gotta be a way of stopping this. Of fixing things so Filomez can ride you again, if that’s what you want.”
“There are charms and mojo bags,” Sam says.
“And protection spells,” Odette adds. “We can keep the demons out. Got a few ideas on how to purify the demon taint too. Ain’t so sure what to do about them angels though.”
“You’ve got your Alliance,” Sam says. “I’ll talk to the Cunning Folk; the Bruja Blanca; the hunters. I’ll make it happen.”
“And your brother?”
“I won’t stand in Ogou’s way, but’s it’s still Dean’s choice.”
Kalfu looks at Dean. “You willing to let Ogou ride you?”
“I ain’t lining up to be anybody’s meat-puppet,” Dean says steadily. “Demon, Angel or Loa.”
Kalfu nods. “Ogou got a reason he’s interested in you. See, your name kept coming up. Everybody knew it. Why would that be, you think?”
“My handsome face?” Dean snarks. “My perky nipples? How the Hell should I know?”
“Who leads the armies of Heaven?” Kalfu asks.
It’s Odette who answers. “St Michael.”
“Archangels got very special requirements for their vessels,” Kalfu says. “The bloodlines are cultivated for generations. One thing they need is a vessel with a bright shiny soul.”
Dean scoffs. “Well that ain’t me then.”
Kalfu looks at Sam, who’s looking miserable.
“Yeah,” Sam says. His eyes slide to gold, which is never not going to be creepy. “It is. Your soul is the brightest I’ve ever seen, Dean.”
Sam’s eyes return to normal. “Michael and Lucifer. Brothers. Just like us. If Michael’s in your bloodline, then he’s in mine too. Only my blood’s been corrupted which makes me suitable for Lucifer.”
If Dean wasn’t already sitting down, he’d need to sit down. “So Michael and Lucifer think they’re gonna wear me and my brother to the prom? Ain’t no way I’m agreeing to that. You said angels needed permission, right?”
Kalfu’s face twists in contempt. “Angels got their own ideas about consent. It don’t seem to bother them none if it’s coerced. When the time comes, if Michael wants in, he’ll find the right button to push to make you agree.”
“So we’ll find a way to stop him.”
“I got one,” Kalfu says. “Ogou’s a hunter. A warrior. He’s enough like Michael that he’s gonna be a good fit for you. But once Ogou puts a bridle on you, you ain’t gonna fit Michael no more. Just let Ogou ride you once, you won’t have to worry about Michael ever again.”
Dean shakes his head. “There’s gotta be another way,” he pauses. “Look, I ain’t saying no to Ogou, period. I just…I gotta think about this.”
“We got some time,” Kalfu says. “The angels and the demons are playing a long game, ain’t got all the pieces in place yet.”
He reaches out and grasps Dean’s bullman pendant. “Mami Wata put powerful protection on you,” he mutters a few words of his own. “This ain’t gonna come off now unless you deliberately take it off. And you heed, boy, once you do, that’s your invitation to Ogou. This is our failsafe. Our last resort? Comprendre? ”
Dean swallows and nods. “You said you had a name. For the demon who created the special children. You gonna give it to us?”
Kalfu looks from Sam to Odette and then back to Dean. “Azazel,” he says. “He’s the Demon General in charge of setting up the board for the Apocalypse.”
By mid-afternoon, Sam and Dean have the beginnings of a plan and Bobby’s expecting them.
He’s also expecting Phoebe, Brittany and a handful of Cunning Folk from San Francisco; a family of Bruja Blanca from Laredo; Max and Alicia Barnes who are hunters and white witches (Sam is vague about how he knows them); and Pastor Jim, Caleb and Rufus. Aimee and Aniyah will be coming down in a few days too.
In short, Bobby’s hosting the first meeting of the new Anti-Apocalypse Alliance (so named because Sam is a geek who loves alliteration and nobody else cared what it was called) and their goal is to stop The End before it even gets close. After the meeting, Sam and Dean plan to hit the road, tracking and rounding up all the special children they can find and recruiting as many hunters and magically inclined people as they can persuade to join the cause. And all the while they’ll be looking for the demon that messed with Sam and killed their mom.
They may even work a few Jobs along the way. Saving people. Hunting things. The family business.
Sam throws Dean’s weapons duffle into the impala’s trunk and slams it shut. He turns to his brother, a look of determination on his face.
“Let’s go,” he says. “We’ve got work to do.”
The End