A/N:

This is a part of the Demon Hunters 'verse, but it should be able to stand alone (I tried, at least. If anything confuses you, ask away!). It is sort of a time stamp for Brilliant Light - the ghost hunt which Dean goes on between ch. 4 and 5.

For NightReader22 and deadone1013.

Enjoy!

Who Do Voodoo?

Day 1

Dean makes his way to Gravette. Not because he has decided to hunt and kill the ghost (though, and this actually startles him a little, he really needs a kill by now), but because he hasn't got a better place to start anyway.

The case in the old mansion cum art gallery looks pretty straight-forward. Seven floods (in one form or another) in twelve days cannot be put down to accidents and bad luck, or karma, no matter what the local news station thinks. There is something going on there, something supernatural, and everything points towards a ghost. A ghost he could easily take care of in the four days he and Sam agreed on – even if the first is actually almost over.

Four days, that was the limit Sam set for when he would be done. Not for when he would have found something, but for when he would be through all of the possible files; for when there would be nowhere left to look. But unless Sam remembers wrong (and that doesn't happen often, thankfully), there is something there to be found. Only, they cannot know if it will help Cas.

Dean grinds his teeth and tightens his grip on the wheel. The world slips into sharper focus. Castiel is dying. The stolen grace which is currently propping him up is burning out, and unless they find something to take its place – new grace or whatever 'brilliant light' Sam remembers being mentioned somewhere in those files – Dean will have one less person to care about very soon.

The steering wheel creaks. Dean pulls over on the shoulder and takes a deep breath, eyes closed.

In the bunker with Sam and Cas – actually already from he joined back up with Sam again – it has been easier for him to control his anger. And it is not that his control is actually slipping now, but the no-win situation makes him every bit as frustrated as the long string of no-win situations his life has been made up of usually do. Coupled with how long it has been since he got some action and the nagging thoughts of what was taken from him (not going there!), he is in a less than pleasant mood.

He will admit that Cas and his ridiculous stubbornness is a not-insignificant part of the problem, as well. The easiest and most expedient solution would be for Dean and Sam to retrieve some new grace from another angel, but no, "I will not sacrifice another of my brothers so that I might live, Dean". Well, Cas, how about we sacrifice one of the dicks to get the Winchesters another few months of peace? Neither he nor Sam are prepared to sit by twiddling their thumbs as they lose another friend. They can't.

But Castiel is a stubborn son of a bitch, and as it is now, Dean probably couldn't force the new grace down his throat, even if he managed to get his hands on an angel. Sam wouldn't help him either, because the big nerd still believes they have a chance to find whatever it is the Men of Letters got their hands on that warranted the description of 'light of divine power'.

So that's his dilemma. He is on a deadline, he has no idea where to find and angel, and even if he did, and did manage to retrieve some grace to take back with him, it wouldn't help, because his idiotic angel wouldn't accept it. At the same time he would let a ghost (which, granted, hasn't hurt anyone – yet) run loose. Last but not least, he has a growing desire to kill.

(And he knows himself well enough to realise that that last one might actually be the biggest impediment. Could he take the grace from an angel, if he came across one? After all, if he was to (accidentally) (…) go for the kill he'd be back to square one.)

If he could get his hands on some grace, he supposes he could take it back with him, keep it till Cas is weak enough that he can't put up a fight when Dean shoves it down his throat. By then Sam would probably be perfectly ready to help him, too. But there is the slight chance that Sam succeeds and finds something else that'll work, which would then leave Dean with a bottle of grace and another betrayal of the angel.

The way their relationship is right now, Dean's not sure he can afford that.

So he pulls back out into the road and continues towards Gravette. There's a couple of hours left to go still. Perhaps he'll think of something in the meanwhile. Or an angel will drop from the sky in front of him, so he can honestly say that he had no choice. He might not be able to pray, but one can always hope.

It's a little past 7 pm when he hits the town limits. He passes a couple of motels, but he figures there's no reason to bother. If he really needs to crash, the bench seats of the Impala will serve, and it is only a few days anyway. A few days, which he still hasn't made his mind up on how he wants to use.

He finds the new gallery easily enough. Horne House sits in the middle of a preposterous lawn, which makes Dean snort and think about old men overcompensating. Behind the mansion he can make out the colours of a flower garden in the sun, and an orchard off to the side. Aside from the fact that everything is kind of overdone, it actually looks quite nice. Pompous, but nice.

He dials up Sam.

"Dean?"

"I'm here now. You should see this place. It's kinda... picturesque?" a crooked smile slips onto Dean's face.

"Have you found anything?" Sam's voice sounds tinny.

"Nah, I haven't gone in yet. Will probably wait a bit. It's still all bright and sunny out," Dean grins into the phone is he puts the Impala into reverse, settling her in more snugly for his wait.

"Did you need anything?"

"Nah—" A sigh cuts him off.

"Then why did you call? It's not like I don't have anything better to do." Dean can practically hear the bitch face.

"Wow, what's got your panties in a twist, princess?"

"I'm trying to work here, Dean—"

"Sam. Sammy," Dean interrupts, "Maybe you should take a break. Go get something to eat, get some energy into your system?"

There's a shuffling on the other end of the phone. "I guess you're right. It's just, the refrigerated stuff is just sort of... gross? No, not even. But bland. And unsatisfying. Soon as I'm done here, I want to go out for fresh supplies." It takes Dean a moment to catch up, and when he does, he grimaces. He's quite sure Sam isn't talking about limp salad.

"Dammit, Sammy, why didn't you say anything?"

"I'm saying it now. And the longer you keep disturbing me, the longer it will be before I'm done, and the longer before I can fix it."

The longer before he can get his fix. Right. "Get something in your system, Sam. You're being a whiny bitch."

"Goodbye, Dean."

Dean looks at the disconnected phone. He doesn't exactly feel better about the prospects of Sam's finding a grace-replacement now.

"Fuck," he hisses out.

What is he doing here, hunting a ghost, when he should be looking for a way to help Cas? Why is he wasting his time? Somebody else could take care of this ghost. Some hunter is going to notice it once it starts dropping bodies. Maybe not with the first, or the second, or even the third casualty, but someone will notice eventually. This isn't Dean's problem. What are a couple of dead humans to the risk of losing Castiel (again)? Dean couldn't care less about these people. No, he should—

A sharp tapping pulls him out of his thoughts. A guy is rapping dark fingers against the Impala's front window. The stranger isn't even bending down to look in at Dean (and he would have to, he is tall). There is a loud noise each time the metal of his ring connects with the glass, and between the steady ringing, Dean can almost hear the rush of the stranger's blood, see how life travels through his body, swift and arrogant, accentuated by that noise.

Clink, clink, clink.

Dean practically shoves the door open, the movement sending the stranger staggering several steps back. In a way, this is a good thing. It lets Dean turn to the Impala's window before he faces the stranger, and determine that there are thankfully no scratches in the glass. Okay. He takes a calming breath. Okay, this guy should consider himself lucky. Dean looks up.

The stranger is dark, lean and as least as tall as Dean. In another life, this wouldn't be a fight Dean could pick carelessly (but, Dean reckons, as a hunter he would still have been able to take this guy. The problem would be if he had been some random Mr. Smith, had had some desk job-life or something).

"What the fuck, dude?" Dean tries for a menacing scowl and it comes almost too easily. The other guy's eyes widen.

"Sorry, sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt you or anything!" He has a nice melodic voice, very different from Dean's usual preferences, but still... Dean stops himself. What the fuck? The confusion effectively kills his scowl, and the stranger smiles, "I was just wondering if you were looking to visit the Horn?" he throws his head towards the mansion at Dean's confused stare, and right, of course. Horne House. "It's going to be closed for at least another two days this time. Maybe three."

"Why'd'you assume..." Dean trails off.

"Well, you were parked here, and you were looking kinda intensely at it, so I figured..." The stranger offers a toothy grin, and Dean is momentarily dazzled by the stark contrast between the teeth and his skin, "But I don't suppose you can look anything less than intense with eyes like that."

Dean doesn't react, and only because two equally strong responses try to seize him at once. One wants to tell this guy that he just almost scratched the Impala, so he can give his flirting the fuck up, the other (wilder, harsher) is tempted to show him just how intense his sight can be. Dean reigns the urge in. He really shouldn't let himself lose control in the middle of a public road in broad daylight.

Dean settles on ignoring the guy's comment altogether, "Too bad," he finally tries to answer the first question properly, "I really wanted to have a look around. I've only got a couple of days."

The stranger seems to consider this. Probably trying to decide whether to keep up the flirtation, Dean realises. His rejection wasn't nearly as clear as it could have been. On the other hand... "A friend of mine's the tour guide up there," he tells Dean, and Dean smiles wryly. Perhaps his inefficient rejection might help him out here.

"That so?"

"That is so," the grin is back and Dean returns it. "Kibwe," he introduces himself.

Dean's hands are in his pockets, and he is happy that the stranger doesn't seem to expect a shake. He does a split second mental inventory of which ID's he has with him. "Nathan."

"Pleasure to meet you, Nate," Kibwe practically purrs.

Dean chuckles silently. "Likewise. Kibwe?" he sounds out the unusual name to himself.

"It's a mouthful, I know."

"Nah, I'll manage."

"It's traditionally African. My mom was big on honouring your roots and all that crap."

A bit of flirtation is fine, but Dean thinks this conversation is progressing a little too quickly, if they've already made it to the preliminary parent-introductions. It makes him realise something else, though. "How old are you?"

Kibwe looks slightly taken aback, "Does it matter?"

"Not really, I guess," even if the flirtation should progress, the guy's not jail bait-young or anything, "Just curious." Dean tries to dial up that so-called intense stare. It seems to work. Dean represses a snicker before it shows on his face.

"Only a couple of years younger than you, I'd guess. I'm 24."

This time Dean actually grins out loud. A couple. Right. He wonders if it is the power in him, that makes him seem, if not young, then younger. "A couple probably can't do it."

"How old are you then?"

"Does it matter?"

"I'm curious."

"Wouldn't want to ruin the mystery, would I?" Also, it just occurred to Dean that he is not entirely sure what the birth date is on Nathan Hamill's driver's licence says. He and Sam usually don't go more than a year or two in either direction of their own birth dates when they forge, but that still gives him quite a wide margin of error.

Kibwe just laughs. "I'll call my friend up about a private tour, 'kay? Wanna go somewhere meanwhile?"

The sun is reaching for the horizon now and it'll set soon enough. Dean could just break in under the cover of darkness. Or he could not go at all, and figure out how to track down an angel instead. He supposes summoning one is out, now that they're all grounded. Actually, they probably ought to try that.

"Nate?"

"Yeah, that would be great." Dean still has no idea how he is going to go about getting to an angel. He might as well tag along while he thinks.

"Want to grab a bite to eat?"

Dean's not that far gone in his head. "Nah," and after a second's hesitation, "I already ate."

That is a plain lie, of course, but he is not hungry, and eating with someone seems to imply all sorts of things. He's not interested in going there. A coffee, or better yet, a beer, that he can do.

"Wanna grab a beer, then?" Kibwe asks, and Dean only just refrains from narrowing his eyes at him.

"Sure."

Kibwe turns and starts walking. "Keep up," he throws over his shoulder. Dean takes an instant to look closer at the guy – and he's just that, a guy. Reassured, Dean blinks, and follows good-naturedly.

Dean's evening doesn't go as he had planned.

Kibwe calls his friend on the way to the bar. The friend, Dean thinks his name is Mal?, agrees to give them a private tour, which, in spite of being what he hoped for, rubs Dean the wrong way. Nothing is ever that easy. Not in the life of a Winchester.

And the first complication comes along fast enough. They won't go tonight, absolutely no can do. They'll have to wait till next day, and daylight. (The paintings present themselves much better in sunlight!) Also, both this Mal-guy and Kibwe are coming, and okay, maybe Dean should have foreseen that, but still. Broad daylight and an audience do not exactly make for optimum conditions for him to hunt in.

Even though they have settled the outing, Kibwe still insist on grabbing that beer. Dean mostly wants to just disappear; he has better things to spend his time on than getting drunk with a stranger. And yet he still finds himself in the bar. Because drinking is an old friend, and a knee-jerk way for him to deal with inner tumult.

He barely even recognises, or acknowledges, this inner tumult until a few beers in, though. The conversation with Kibwe is pleasant enough, albeit shallow and, for Dean at least, rather pointless. It has gotten dark outside, and if not for his sharp sight, Dean thinks he would have trouble seeing in the dingy bar.

Someone else does.

A guy stumbles his way towards where Dean is sitting, until he finally fully trips when he is right next to the hunter. He drops the two full glasses he is carrying and upends Dean's bottle at the same time. There is beer flying everywhere.

Dean jumps up with a growl that is more feral than it should be. Around him, several people are staring at him and (possibly more so, he realises vaguely) the guy sprawled on the floor. The presence of so many people rolls against Dean, life and lust and despair churning through the crowds' collective veins, and he can feel the waves break over him. He doesn't just want to dam all those emotions up, he wants to drain the sea dry.

In front of him, the guy on the floor moans and whimpers in a pool of beer.

Before Dean can step closer to the pathetic creature, there is a hand on his arm. He jerks away, only vaguely realising that very few people would react that strongly to a touch on the biceps.

"Come on," Kibwe says, his hand closing around Dean's forearm this time. His hold is strong as he drags Dean towards the door, and though Dean could easily dislodge him, he has calmed down enough to realise that he shouldn't let his murderous anger loose in the close quarters of the bar.

In the dimly lit room, he doesn't think anyone noticed how dark his eyes grew.

Kibwe takes him home. It takes Dean too long to get himself under control, to calm down sufficiently, to protest. The guy has a small flat, which Dean doesn't need any kind of expertise to determine was attacked by the monster that is a young, disorderly guy living alone. It's okay. Dean doesn't mind the mess. It sort of matches the state of his thoughts right now.

"Are you okay?" his new friend asks him, and Dean takes stock. He is fine.

Except, "Yuck, I'm soaked." Dean likes to drink beer. Involuntarily showering in it, not so much. Kibwe starts to smile and Dean points an accusing finger at him, "Don't you dare."

"I'll find you some sweatpants or something. The shower's that way," he's clearly trying to suppress a grin, and Dean groans in response.

As Kibwe disappears into his room, Dean wonders at his mood swings. He has no problems controlling himself when he is with Sam, maybe partly because he knows Sam can, at the very least, go a good ways towards kicking his ass, as it is. But he hasn't got any trouble with Castiel either (who, with the state he is in, isn't going to be kickin' any arses for the time being). Granted, Dean hasn't actually seen much of the angel since he came back with them, but even so.

Yet now, out on his own, he has an itch he is dying to scratch. It sits on his forearm, and in the back of his mind. He might just have to take care of that ghost before he does anything else, or risk ruining his chances completely if he does manage to track down an angel.

He is nowhere close to losing control completely, but the fact remains. He needs to kill.

Kibwe returns with the promised pants and a loose t-shirt on top of a towel. If Dean smelled any less of beer, he'd probably protest against using a stranger's shower and wearing his clothes. Come to think of it, he probably has spares in the Impala. On the other hand, Dean doesn't exactly feel that he need be wary of a human.

"Thanks, man." He heads for the shower.

Dean exits the bathroom dressed in Kibwe's clothes, all of his own rolled into a tight bundle in his hands. The sweatpants are loose and Dean doesn't know how he feels about getting slightly more air to the nether regions than he is used to. He doesn't actually dislike the feeling. And if his host notices or has any objections, well he could've provided.

Dean finds the living room empty, but he follows a low noise to the kitchen. If he didn't know better, he would say it almost sounded like chanting. He shakes his head with a huff. Kibwe turns to face him, leaning against the counter.

"You got a bag I can stuff these in?" Dean gestures with the clothes in his hand.

"Probably have a grocery bag, but... Your clothes won't dry like that, and it certainly won't do anything for the smell!"

"It's okay, man. I've got spare in my trunk, anyway."

"Oh." This seems to throw Kibwe for a moment, and Dean figures that is fair enough. He probably ought to be on his way to get some of his own clothes by now.

"I made us tea. Figured you might be a bit reluctant to drink beer right now."

Dean would so have preferred the beer. "Sounds good."

"Come," Kibwe leads the way back into the living room, carrying both mugs with him. They settle in either end of the (very comfortable, Dean notices with glee) couch.

"What is it?"

"Just black tea with a little mint," he hands him one of the mugs.

Dean takes a sip. "Hm," he peers at the liquid, as though he might be able to see the ingredients (he probably couldn't, even if he did look properly,) "Is there chamomile in it, too?"

"Not chamomile, damiana. It's the spicy taste. It's... a blend."

Dean ponders a little longer, "What else?"

"Rosemary, nutmeg—"

"Thyme," Dean supplies, and Kibwe raises an impressed eyebrow.

"Yes. There's rose petals in it too. Bet you hadn't guessed that!"

Dean certainly hadn't Who puts roses in tea? Apparently the same guy who uses all of the above and... Dean takes another sip. He's quite sure there's lemon zest in it, too.

They continue drinking their tea in a silence that Dean decides he doesn't care enough, for to become awkward. Kibwe turns on the television. They settle on a sci-fi flick that is halfway through, and despite himself, Dean manages to get caught up in the plot.

He can feel Kibwe watching him a little too often, and long. Or maybe it isn't that long – Dean doesn't actually remember what the norm is; he is too used to Cas' stares. This Kibwe-guy ain't got nothing on Dean's angel.

Dean falls asleep on the couch.

Covers three days (three chapters), which'll all be posted before next weekend.