This is the latest round robin from Yuma, geminigrl11, K Hanna, Phx and myself.
We own nothing. Reviews craved.
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The Familiar, the Witch, and the Winchesters
Yuma
Basic law of physics: "Every action has an equal and opposite reaction."
Wrong. Sam—as he would've been the first to tell you—was sure it needed to be edited.
"Every action to a pissed-off familiar/shapeshifter, has a larger and more painful reaction."
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"Dude, hurry up, will you?"
Sam looked up, but his retort died at the bruise that discolored his brother's jaw. He just grunted, nodded curtly, and tried to undo the knots that wrapped Dean's equally bruised wrists around the wood pillar that held up the derelict church.
"You could've brought a knife."
It was hard not to yell sometimes, especially at older brothers dumb enough to push little brothers out of the way and get dragged off to be the Friday Night Special. Sam just grit his teeth as he yanked at the bristly rope. "Sure, in between the running and tracking that witch down four miles of woods in the rain, I had time to head back to the car and get a machete."
"At least you shouldn't have lost the gun," Dean grumbled. He grimaced. "Slow down, will you? I want to come out of this with all ten of my fingers."
Sam's head shot up again. "You want me to hurry up or slow down?" he rasped. Just looking at the icy puffs coming out of his mouth made him feel colder. "And how would a gun help us?"
"You could have shot the ropes."
"Thought you wanted to keep all your fingers," Sam pointed out. He hissed as the coarse rope bit into his numb fingers.
"You seen it around?"
The suddenly serious voice made Sam forget about his fingers. "No," he said somberly. "The seal should hold the witch back."
"But not its friend."
Sam lifted his eyes and met Dean's, then ducked his head. "No. Not the familiar," Sam agreed and attacked the rope with renewed intensity.
Dean stood still—not that he had a choice—and stared at the scaffolding about them and the strings of purification sachets strung around like a cheap-ass holiday garland. "Martha Stewart, you're not," Dean muttered. He fidgeted, his freed legs shifting from foot to foot.
A howl outside seemed to come from everywhere. Sam stiffened. "Man," he muttered as he tugged at the rope and one knot finally loosened.
"It sounds pissed at you."
"Me? You're the one who laughed at it," Sam shot back.
"You were the one who shot arrows, torched, and almost beheaded its mistress! Then you pinned it in the manure with that tractor! Didn't you make it mad enough?"
"It was already pissed, and the thing's taller than me now! I had to use the tractor! It was mad because you called it names," Sam exclaimed, sparing a blistering glare at Dean. He started on the next knot. What the hell tied this? Some Supernatural wicca Boy Scout? "You called it a pussy," Sam reminded Dean, because older brothers apparently suffer from convenient amnesia.
"Dude! It was a fricking tiny cat sitting on top of my car! How was I suppose to know that was its familiar? It wasn't even black! They're supposed to be black! It looked like that stupid Henry you had when you were four!"
Sam flushed as he yanked at the ropes. For some reason, wet, bedraggled stray animals had always known where to find Sam back then, and a striped kitten in a rain-sodden O'Henry candy bar carton was no exception. Except that it had scratched Sam when he carried it home inside his shirt. Dean spent the night dabbing away his little brother's tears and iodine on Sam's scratches, and finding a shoebox for Henry to sleep in under Sam's bed. They'd gotten away with it for weeks until Henry crawled up Dad's bed and widdled on their sleeping father's chest.
"Man, Dad was pissed then."
"Very funny," Sam growled. "Almost there. Just two more knots to go—"
Another howl. This time it came from just outside the door barricaded with the three antique four-foot-tall iron wrought candleholders shoved through the door handles, Sam's cut finger having left a bloody seal on the wood.
"They're he-ere," Dean intoned as he stared at the shaking doors. The candlesticks slowly slid off the handles, the first one landing with a loud, final, clang.
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Tyranusfan
24 Hours Earlier
"We're nowhere," Dean sighed into his beer mug. "Go over it again."
Sam set his drink aside and opened up his notebook. The past two days in Springfield had been fruitless, and he too was feeling his brother's frustration. "All right. We've got four men dead, all between 27 and 30, all Caucasian, all single…all found tied to pillars and all victims of animal attacks."
"But none by the same animal," Dean added.
"Right. Each died a different way…um, three were mauled…and pretty much torn apart, and the last seems to have been partially eaten."
"Hmm, appetizing." Dean looked at his mozzarella sticks with less gusto this time. "Talk to me about the symbols."
Sam flipped a page. "Okay. There were demonic sigils at each location, but the only one common to all the sites was the largest one, on the floor. A pentagram topped by an upright triangle. That's…where most of the blood from the victims was found, along the chalk lines of the symbol."
Dean nodded. "The sign of a high-level witch or warlock."
"The highest, yes. A third-degree. Whoever it is doing this, they're old school and into some serious mojo. But I think the most interesting parts are the knots the victims were tied with."
"You would."
"Dean, seriously. The knot is an old symbol, both for and against witchcraft, just like the pentagram itself. Old Arabic myths mention witches who cast spells on people by breathing on certain kinds of knots. That's why some tie their beards in knots, to protect themselves."
"You really need to go on Jeopardy sometime, Sammy."
Sam rolled his eyes and released a long-suffering sigh. "Anyway, I think we're looking for a pretty amped-up witch or a warlock."
"And these guys are blood sacrifices to…whichever demon this person sold his or her soul to," Dean concluded.
"Yeah. I figure they lure men in—"
"So, it's a witch. A woman."
Sam shot Dean a look. "Not necessarily."
His brother just stared for a moment, then his face wrinkled. "Eww."
"Just sayin'."
Dean shook his head. "So, this…thing lures men in, trusses them up, then feeds them to an animal for the blood sacrifice."
"That's what I'm thinking."
"But, what kind of animal? You said yourself that three of the men were torn apart and the fourth was half-eaten."
Sam shrugged. "I don't know."
The bar's waitress came by the table, but Dean waved her off. "We're okay."
He and Sam both looked up when the fairly attractive, middle-aged brunette dropped into one of the empty seats. She reminded Sam of a younger Ellen Harvelle. "You're pretty far from okay, pretty boy," the woman hissed.
Dean blinked. "Excuse me?"
"You two want to explain why you're horning in on my job?"
Sam glanced at Dean. Another hunter? "I'm sorry, you are…?"
"Name's Margie. Margie Hamilton. I've been tracking this witch across five states. Why don't you two take a hike and let a grown-up handle it?"
She seemed pretty pissed for some reason. Sam looked at Dean, unsure how to proceed. His brother frowned and tried another approach. "Um…I'm Dean, this is my brother Sam—"
"I don't need to know the names," she bit out dismissively.
Sam tried to sound peaceable. "Have we…done something to offend you, Ms. Hamilton?"
The "puppy-dog look" Dean always accused him of using seemed to work in this instance. Margie visibly softened, then sighed. "I— I'm sorry. It's just…I've been after this thing for years and I'm always too late or too— Anyway, I apologize."
Dean relaxed as well. Sam saw him casually pull his hand away from the concealed handgun. "So, this is something personal for you, huh?"
Margie nodded. "My whole family…they, uh— Well, they were the first victims. And when I got here and saw you two with those newspaper clippings…I just didn't want someone else coming in and ruining it all for me. Not after so long."
Sam and Dean shared a look. They understood obsession as well as anyone. Sam shrugged. "We can…we can help you. I mean, if you want us to."
Dean and Margie both glanced at him, Dean surprised, Margie confused.
"Why would you want to help me?" Margie asked.
"Well, you said you were always one step behind this thing. Maybe with help, you can finally corner it."
She seemed to consider that, then squinted at Sam suspiciously. "You'd help me, someone you don't know, catch this thing? Why? What's in it for you?"
Dean seemed to read Sam's mind. We know what it's like to hunt something your whole life. To Margie, he hedged, "We just want to keep anyone else from dying here. I'd rather help you get the kill than let anyone else get hurt. We're not in this game for the glory."
They'd lost too much to care about that crap. Glory was for amateurs who didn't know the evil that was really out there.
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It didn't take much for Margie to agree. The three spent the next two hours at the table, comparing notes. For all her years hunting the witch, Margie didn't have much more information than the Winchesters did. Dean could understand her frustration: Always one step behind. Her single-minded determination was not unlike his dad's.
She did know something they didn't: the witch had a familiar, an animal companion that was part-pet, part-partner. It was an uncommon custom among the few witches the Winchesters had hunted, and was usually regarded these days as a sign of a very old, very badass witch. It was quite possible that, whatever the animal was killing the men, it would be the familiar. They'd have to keep an eye out.
Dean turned his attention back to their new "associate." Margie seemed nice enough. Once her attitude had thawed, she came across as a gruff but likeable woman, equal parts Martha Stewart and Madonna. However weird that was. She didn't seem to mind coming on strong, either, if the way her hand was slowly inching up Dean's thigh was any indication.
He hadn't said anything for fear of disrupting their newfound cooperation, and Sam hadn't notice the shenanigans going on under the table. She kept calling Dean "Pretty Boy," though. He didn't know how to take that. She wasn't wrong, and obviously had good taste, but, still…
Dean tried to pull his attention back to what was being discussed.
"I think we should check it out," Sam was saying. Check what out? Dean frowned. He was a little distracted by Margie's forwardness, but he'd just play it by ear until he could catch up. Sam was rising to leave, so it seemed like a good plan to do the same.
Margie didn't even look in his direction on the way out of the bar. Dean made sure Sam was between them as they headed outside.
Stepping into the cold night air, he noted two irritating things: it had started raining, and there were dozens of muddy prints all over the Impala's hood and windshield. The source of the prints was immediately obvious. A mangy-assed tabby cat had climbed up and was perched on the car's roof. It vaguely reminded Dean of Henry, the flea-ridden tabby Sammy had taken in as a child.
He swatted at the drenched little bastard. "Hey, get off my car! Shoo!"
The damned thing hissed at him.
Oh, it was on, now. Dean slapped his hand down on the Impala's roof, spooking the cat and causing it to leap off onto the sidewalk. "Yeah, that's right, you little pussy. You better run."
It turned and hissed again, and Dean could have sworn for a moment that its beady little eyes had flashed at him.
He had barely turned back to the car when Sam and Margie started yelling.
"Dean, did you see—?"
"Hey, that's it! That's the familiar!"
Dean had barely gotten "What?" out when Margie took off after the fleeing furball, wrestling with her shoulder bag. Dean and Sam, having been left little choice, raced after her.
They reached the corner of the building, rounding onto the next street, when the cat disappeared into the shadows.
Dean took the pause to tap Sam's shoulder. "Why are we chasing Heathcliff's stray cousin?"
His younger brother glanced over, frowning. "Did you see its collar?"
"Yeah, it had a tag. So what?"
Sam turned, giving him that bitchy duh! face he had perfected over the years. "It wasn't a tag, Dean, it was a wax amulet."
"Huh?"
"It's called an almadel, a wax amulet you inscribe a demon's name onto. You can even change whatever demonic energy you're summoning by melting it down, re-forming it, and changing the name."
"Wait." Dean held up a hand. "You're saying that mangy cat was this witch's familiar we're looking for?"
"Yeah, it has to be. Who would use an amulet as a pet collar? But did you see the color of almadel?"
Dean rolled his eyes, knowing when Sam was going into full-on geek mode. "Let's just assume I didn't."
"These amulets, their color indicates what kind of power they're channeling. Like, yellow for immortality, or saffron for good luck. That amulet was a mottled color, indicating a chameleon personality."
Dean just stared, having no idea what Sam was talking about.
Sam huffed impatiently. "Dean, these men have been attack by different animals. I think this familiar has the power to change into other animals."
Dean's eyes widened. Holy crap. That would explain a lot. It also made this hunt a lot more dangerous. The thing could be any animal they saw.
Margie broke into their conversation. "Hey, Pretty Boy, Encyclopedia WeirdShitica, you want you catch this thing or not?" She was pointing down the street. The cat had reappeared, watching them from a side alley behind the bar.
Dean glanced at Sam, and they took off on Margie's heels.
The cat bolted from sight.
When they rounded the next corner, they saw that the short alley was a dead end. The tabby was cornered by a dumpster near the far wall.
Heh, gotcha now, pussy…. Dean drew his gun. They'd need to kill this thing before it could change into something more ferocious. He and Sam waved Margie back and advanced into the alley. They kept alert, not knowing if the animal's master was nearby.
They only made it ten feet or so when a blast of…something slammed them from behind. It shot through Dean's muscles like electricity, paralyzing him. He was vaguely aware of Sam careening into one of the brick walls. Dean was even luckier. He landed shoulder-first in a pile of debris next to the dumpster, hard enough to knock the wind from him. Something hard and sharp stabbed him beneath the shoulder blade, adding even more pain. He couldn't move, just lay there gasping for air.
After a Herculean struggle, Dean rolled his head to the side, watching as Margie approached to help. No…not help. She stopped a few feet away, laughing.
"Thanks for telling me how much you knew, boys. I've got one more sacrifice to perform, then I'm out of here. Try not to get in my way. I'd hate to mess up those pretty faces." She turned and walked out of the alley, pausing only to motion for the cat to follow. "Come along, Isis. You did well."
Dean wasn't sure what felt worse, the fact that he'd let his guard down while chasing a cat, or that he'd let himself get groped by a freakin' witch. We can't tell Bobby about this.
When he could move easier, he struggled to roll onto his side. Sam was lying face down, straining to sit up. Dean suppressed a shout when his back protested moving. A wet spot was forming under his shirt. Damn. "Sammy? You okay?"
Sam groaned. "Yeah… Yeah, my face broke the fall."
Dean huffed a silent laugh at that, still trying to get his whammied muscles to function properly, then realization dawned on him. He cursed and punched the ground.
"What?" Sam sounded curious.
"I should have caught it."
Sam rolled onto his side with a barely concealed whimper. "Caught what?"
"Her name! 'Margie Hamilton'?"
Sam shook his head, lost.
Dean shook his in shame. "Margie. Margaret. Margaret Hamilton, the actress who played the Wicked Witch of the West in The Wizard of Oz." He repressed the urge to ask his brother why the hell he didn't know these things. After all, Sammy had only watched the damned movie a million times growing up. Freakin' brain on legs, but he knows nothing of his cultural heritage.
Dean sighed and dropped his head to the ground, trying to get his thoughts together. This witch had gotten the drop on them but good.
"What a bitch," he muttered.
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Geminigrl11
They were on high alert from that point forward, not knowing when the Wicked Witch might return, with or without Isis. And if she had the power to toss them like they were made of straw, there was no telling what else she could do.
The biggest question was why she hadn't taken one of them right then. Dean was the right age, and Sam close enough, and they'd pretty much been at her mercy, loath as they were to admit it. But either way, they'd once again lived to fight another day, and they were making the most of it.
Sam was researching binding spells, ways to tie up a witch's abilities and render her incapable of putting any of her powers to use. They were complicated, though, calling for incantations and ingredients that made them seem far too close to dark magic to be safe.
Still, people were dying. And at least one more guy was on the list before Margie had achieved everything she was hoping for…and then what?
Nothing they wanted to find out, that was sure.
"I think we need to try this." Sam held out the most promising spell for Dean to read. He watched as Dean skimmed the pages, his expression growing more and more dour until he finally met Sam's eyes, glaring.
"No way."
"Dean, we don't have a—"
"No way, Sam. Dad would kick our asses for even thinking about using a spell like this."
"I don't think we have any other choice."
"Yeah, we do. All we have to do is track her down, trap that stupid cat so it can't attack us, and—" Dean broke off, running a hand through his hair in frustration.
"Yeah. And, after that, we've got nothing."
Dean was glaring again, but there was a different cast to it. Reluctant resignation, if Sam had to guess…which was made easier by the fact that he was feeling the exact same thing.
"Son of a bitch. I hate freaking witches!"
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It didn't take long to gather the items they needed: dried chicken bones and sage, other herbs, a curl of baby's hair, chrism oil. Surprisingly commonplace, if a person knew where to look.
Sam mixed the ingredients, looking back to their book with each new step to make sure he was doing it correctly. He lit the sage and set the wooden bowl they'd used on the end table. The incantation would come as soon as he'd performed the last step: adding three drops of blood.
But Dean beat him to it. He reached for the knife he usually kept in his boot and rolled up a sleeve, blade poised over his wrist.
Sam gaped, horrified. "Dean! What are you doing?"
"What's it look like? I'm the right age, same as all the other sacrifices. And no way am I letting you cut yourself. With your luck, you'd hit an artery."
Dean was trying to make light, but it didn't help. Sam had had no intention of Dean using his own blood, and it made his stomach clench to think of it, not only feeling sick at the idea of Dean purposefully cutting himself, but also at the risk they ran of the spell backfiring. Which meant Dean would be at its mercy, bound by his blood as surely as they were trying to bind the witch's powers.
"Dean, you can't—"
"Too late." Dean dragged the knife across his wrist, shallow but already starting to well up. "Don't make me waste this, Sammy. This is primo, Grade A, universal donor blood. A spell should be so lucky."
"Damn it, Dean!" Sam shoved the bowl under Dean's hand, flinching as the small flame hissed with each new drop. He was furious but mostly scared, and it didn't help that, an instant later, all his fears were realized.
There was a sudden flare of light, blinding and sharp, driving Sam to his knees. He couldn't see Dean, couldn't shout for him, could barely even breathe. Every muscle twisted and seized, and he fell in a haze of agony.
Dimly, he heard a woman laugh and his brother cry out. "Ah, my pretties." Margie's voice, like razors in Sam's ears. "It really is such a treat to having you doing all the hard work for me."
It ended almost as soon as it had begun, colors seeping back and pain receding. Sam gulped in a breath and staggered to his feet, calling for his brother before he'd even had a chance to really look for him.
He turned his head to scan the room and saw the door blown wide open, rain pelting inside. And no one there.
Dean was gone.
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Tyranusfan
Sam cursed, sweeping the spell book off the table. The spell was supposed to summon the witch, but without her powers. The damned book was wrong.
A small voice in his mind whispered that it had probably been written by a witch or warlock, and such details had been left out purposely, but Sam silenced it. None of that mattered now. She had Dean.
With a spell book he couldn't trust, he was back to Plan A: hunting the bitch down and rescuing her last sacrifice. Sam desperately tried to ignore the fact that her last sacrifice was Dean.
There was still time. The sacrifices took a while, judging by the damage done to the bodies. It wasn't immediate. He had a window of opportunity.
Sam tried to take solace in that but couldn't.
He went back to the map and the notes they'd accumulated. The four victims they knew about had all been found at remote sites along the edges of the city, a good distance apart. The location Margie had suggested they check out when they left the bar was to the south, right between the middle two stars Sam had drawn on the map, in what appeared to be a park.
Sam frowned. Something about that didn't track. So far, all the sacrifices had been indoors, in warehouses, a factory, a gymnasium....
Wait a minute... Sam slammed his fist down on the table. Why hadn't he seen that before?
He ran his finger up the map in a straight line away from the point Margie had mentioned, across to the other side of town. His finger stopped in what seemed to be a sparsely populated section of the city, just in the suburbs. If you drew lines between that location and the others, a perfect pentagram was formed over the city. The witch had been trying to throw them off the trail.
Sam wasted no more time. He snatched the map from the table, along with the weapons bag they'd brought in, and dashed for the Impala.
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Dean woke to an upside-down world. An upside-down and slightly bouncing world. Shadowy treetops brushed the ground, and rain shot up at his face and melted into a solid-looking brown and green sky.
It took a while for his groggy mind to realize that he was the one who was upside-down, not the world. Another few moments went by before he realized that he was draped over someone's shoulder.
Judging by the behind that occasionally swung into his line of sight, he'd say a female someone.
That could only be the witch. Dean tried to move, to roll off her shoulder, anything. His body barely responded, and she effortlessly shifted him back into position.
"Now, now, Dean. Do try and stay still. You're bound to me, remember, you can't go anywhere. Just relax. We're almost there."
Dean opened his mouth, but no words came out.
Great. Just great.
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Sam slammed the Impala into Park, so forcefully that he decided it was best not to mention it to Dean later. It had taken over half an hour driving on an irritating number of one-way streets to even get close to where the map indicated the witch would be.
Might be.
The map led him to a dead-end, one-way street at the edge of the woods. There was a trail leading into the tree line, barely visible in the rainy gloom. Sam sighed and left the warmth of the car and headed for the trunk.
First priorities were the strings of purification sachets that he and Dean had prepared at the room. Handy little items, they could be used to block a witch out of an area, or simply wrap around her to trap her. Either way, the sachets would act as a shield against her powers, much like the way a devil's trap worked against a demon. Those went into one duffel.
He loaded a second duffel with two handguns, several clips of silver bullets, his gerkha knife, a crossbow, some silver-tipped arrows... Sam hesitated over the homemade napalm-tipped arrows. They would need to burn the witch, but Sam might not have time to kill her and then cremate the body.
Dean might not have the time.
Ultimately, that was Sam's tipping point. Dean's situation. He stuffed the arrows into the bag, slammed the trunk, and set off onto the rain-soaked path.
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Dean watched Margie tie yet another knot. She was up to six now. Houdini would have trouble getting out of these ropes...
He was standing against a wooden pillar, at the center of a derelict church. Though, the decorations were hardly church-approved. A large pentagram, with an upright triangle at the "top" point, adorned the floor. Various demonic symbols and sigils were drawn in what looked like blood on the few standing walls. Not good. Where are you, Sammy?
The witch breathed on her freshly tied knot, muttering soft words in some language Dean didn't recognize. The ropes suddenly tightened, jerking him back against the pillar, pulling taut along his arms and legs. He was laid out like a Thanksgiving turkey.
"You know, if you tie them too tight, I'll lose circulation," Dean offered with a smirk. He hoped the panic he felt didn't bleed into his voice.
Margie glowered at him, but then her face softened into a smile. "You know, Pretty Boy, you should be honored. I'm very particular about who I pick for my sacrifices."
"So," Dean asked conversationally, wincing as he tried to loosen the ropes. "What's the point of all this, huh? Sacrifice five men, get a set of Ginsu knifes? A new living room set? Did you sell your soul to a demon or the Lifetime Network?"
The witch threw her head back and laughed.
Dean frowned. It wasn't that funny.
"This is the part where the evil witch tells you her whole plan, giving the dashing hero a chance to escape, right? Please, boy, I've been around the block."
Dean sneered. "Yeah, I'll bet. I was just making conversation, anyway."
She reached forward and ran her fingers across his jaw. "Save it for Isis. She wants to get intimately familiar with you…"
Rolling his eyes at the pun, Dean stopped trying to get under her skin and focused on trying to escape. The last thing he wanted was to be Garfield's midnight snack.
Anytime, Sammy…
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Panting, Sam stopped just inside the tree line. Four miles was an easy run for him. Four miles through uneven woods along slippery trails, carrying a heavy weapons bag on one shoulder and a bag of purification sachets on the other in a freezing rainstorm? That was a little harder.
He crouched next to a tree and took in the scene. A derelict church stood in the center of a clearing. From the construction equipment scattered around, Sam guessed it was a renovation project of some kind. And, apparently, totally abandoned at night. The perfect place for a ritual sacrifice.
The walls of the church had just enough empty windows and holey doors to let him see inside. Dean was in there. Sam couldn't see his face, but he saw his brother's legs, which appeared to be tied to a wooden column toward the center of the church's sanctuary. He couldn't see the witch or her familiar but had to assume they were both inside with Dean. That was all the impetus he needed.
Sam kept low and ran from the tree to a pile of stone and bricks. From there, he advanced to a spot behind a parked towing tractor. He grimaced at the smell of manure; someone had been either planting or digging up a garden. Sam ignored the stench. In that position, he had a clear view of Dean, and his captor. Time to work.
Considering his options, Sam silently opened the weapons bag. He pulled out the crossbow, choosing the silver arrows first. The witch would need to be burned…but she was still in the guise of a human woman, and Sam wasn't ready to burn her alive. He almost wished he was the one inside, since Dean was usually much better at decisions like that. He admired Dean's ability to make the hard calls, though he knew his brother remembered every face of the people they had to kill just as much as Sam did.
Shaking his hesitation off, Sam loaded the crossbow and glanced around. He needed to get her away from Dean. He found a large rock among the dirt, leaves and twigs that had been blown up against the tractor, and grabbed it. He took aim over the tractor's steering wheel and hurled it at the church.
The rock ricocheted off the stone wall just over one of the doors. Through it, Sam saw the witch jump and turn around, looking for the source of the noise. She said something to Dean, smiled, then came cautiously to the open doorway.
She had barely stuck her head out when Sam loosed the arrow. It sliced into the wooden door frame just inches from the witch's face, but Sam didn't wait for her reaction. He reloaded the crossbow and fired again. The shot went wide as she stepped out into the rain.
Margie sent a bolt of magical energy from her hand, but she misjudged the angle of Sam's shot, and her bolt hit the pile of rocks he'd left earlier. It was lucky for him, since the bolt blew the pile apart. She was playing for keeps.
But then, so was Sam.
Steeling himself, he took one of Dean's improvised napalm-tipped arrows and loaded it. He lit it with a match, using his body to protect it from the weather and Margie's view. The gas-soaked medical gauze bundled around the arrowhead ignited immediately.
Sam raised the weapon and depressed the trigger, realizing a moment too late that if he missed, he had just pinpointed his location with the bright flame. The witch turned her hand toward him.
Luckily, he didn't miss. Just as Margie turned toward him, the arrow struck the stone walkway near her feet. A gout of flame erupted when the napalm hit the wet stone, setting her robe on fire. The witch cried out, abandoning her attack and trying to douse the flames.
Sam took advantage of her distraction. Damn it! The machetes were in the trunk. There was no time. He dropped the crossbow, drew his gerkha knife from its sheath, and dashed from his hiding spot.
In her distraction, the witch's Margie appearance wavered, reverting to a withered and hunched figure, with pale, leathery skin and sunken, dark eyes. Her ornate ceremonial robe wavered as well, showing itself to be tattered and holey, but no less flammable. The spells had given her a more palatable look.
Sam raced toward her, raising his knife for a killing blow. He was a mere five feet from her writhing form when something big, dark, and heavy slammed into him from the right.
Her familiar had joined the fight. Landing in a mud puddle, Sam had enough time to roll and raise his hands against the creature's neck, just barely keeping its snapping jaws from clamping down on his neck.
It had changed forms into what appeared to be a black panther. It was hard to tell from Sam's vantage point, six inches from its salivating maw, but it was easily as long as he was tall. Wrestling with a giant wild cat was bound to end only one way if it went on, so Sam acted fast.
He punched it in the neck, distracting it long enough for him to retrieve the knife and slash up. The blade sliced into the cat's chest, forcing it to back off. Sam raised his legs and kicked it in the stomach, and it rolled off him.
Sam scrambled up, away from the sucking mud and back toward the tractor and his duffel. The panther kept its distance for a moment, whimpering softly before growling. Sam could swear it frowned at him. Okay…I pissed it off.
Before his eyes, the familiar blurred a little, its features twisting and curling grotesquely until it shrank abruptly. Less than a minute after Sam stabbed it, the animal had changed into a large, dark grey wolf. The eyes glowed red and the growling intensified.
Time to rearm. Sam took the handgun from his waistband and a long silver knife from his belt. The familiar seemed to recognize the weapons—it must have, since their appearance gave it momentary pause—but they only made it angrier. Huh, that's interesting. Pondering about just how smart the thing was would have to wait, though. The wolf paralleled his movements smoothly as Sam walked sideways toward the tractor.
The next moves happened so fast that Sam felt like he was watching someone else. The wolf turned and charged him. Sam got off two silver rounds before it reached him. One missed completely, the other grazed the creature's hip. It leapt right at Sam's chest. He sidestepped and brought up the knife, slashing down its exposed flank.
It cried out in pain, landing and tumbling to the ground a few feet from Sam and in front of the tractor. Incredibly, even as it landed, hurt, it changed shape again. Sam's eyes widened as the bloodied grey wolf mutated and stretched into an honest-to-God, movie style werewolf. A seven-foot tall, brown, furious werewolf.
The new form's claws shot out, lashing at Sam and snagging his left shoe. Sam was jerked off his feet, landing on his back as the thing practically tore the leather in half. His shredded boot slipped off, and Sam had only a millisecond to wonder how his foot hadn't gone with it.
The werewolf tossed his footwear aside and lurched forward, trying to claw its way up his leg, but Sam regrouped and fired two more silver bullets. Both went into one thickly-muscled, furry shoulder. The familiar screeched, falling back and letting Sam's leg go.
The gunshot wounds still just flesh wounds on something of that size, and Sam was running out of time. He searched frantically for the weapons bag, but it was on the opposite side of the tractor, and his eyes landed instead on the vehicle's driver seat. The keys were dangling from the ignition.
Kicking away from the wounded but quickly recovering beast, Sam climbed to his feet and jumped onto the construction vehicle. Thankfully, it started on the first try. Sam threw it into gear and revved the engine.
The werewolf had no time to react. The tractor lurched forward, wheels rolling up onto the familiar's body and driving it down into the manure below. It screamed, partly in pain, partly in what seemed to Sam as rage, and still fought to escape, but the tractor was heavy.
Sam had no chance to celebrate. Barely had the vehicle stopped than he heard a screeching scream behind him.
"NO! Isis!"
He didn't even have time to look her way before the witch's energy bolt struck the tractor, throwing Sam off. His gun and knife went flying.
But the bolt wasn't enough to moving the tractor off the familiar.
Sam rose into a defensive crouch, but the witch's attention was no longer on him. She raced forward, robes smoldering and human image back in place, and skidded to a stop by her pet.
He had to fight the instinct to attack. With the juice she had demonstrated so far, it wouldn't take much to free her guard cat, and Sam would be facing two opponents. So, he decided to level the playing field.
The duffel with the protective sachets lay near his side. Sam grabbed it and bolted, making a beeline for the church.
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Phx
Dean hated feeling or, even worse, being helpless. Watching through the open double doors of the decrepit church as Sam went up against both the witch and her pet had been one of the hardest things he'd ever had to do. He'd worried his teeth through his bottom lip to keep from yelling out, especially when that freaky creature had snagged one of Sam's boots, but his brother couldn't afford the distraction. To be honest, Dean had been expecting to see the kid's foot go along with the footwear.
But finally, and way too long later if you asked Dean, a weary, wet, and battered-looking Sam had limped into the old church, and Dean finally felt it was okay to give him crap. He did have enough self-control to wait until the kid threaded three heavy candlesticks through the handles of the double doors and turned toward him with such a miffed look that Dean had to grin. His little bro looked absolutely pathetic...
Now, however, as Dean watched the second candlestick slowly slide off the handles, he was reminded, once again, how much he hated being helpless. Damsel in distress really didn't look good on him. But until Sam could get him free, Dean could do nothing except look good, and that would distract the familiar for only however long it took it to eviscerate him. "Uh, Sammy?" The candlestick hit the floor with a dull thunk.
"I know."
Hot breath huffed against his neck as Sam twisted at the rope. This was taking too long. A hard shudder from behind Sam divided his attention between the door and his brother. "You okay?" Sam ignored him, and Dean snorted. "Why do I even ask?"
The third and last candlestick started to slide as Dean yanked his arms, trying to get free.
"Dean," Sam growled as he cursed and tugged at the knots. "That's not helping." Another knot was undone, and Dean now had wiggle room, but as the last candlestick hit the ground and the doors were slowly pushed open, he knew they were out of time.
"Sam…"
"Shit." Sam straightened and moved to stand in front of his brother. Dean could see the tension in the long body but couldn't see past him as he continued twisting at the rope.
"Move," he grunted as blood slicked his wrists. "Can't see."
But Sam didn't move. Instead, he cocked his head to the side as if puzzled and when Dean heard a soft meow a moment later, he understood why.
Now Sam moved, and Dean's eyebrows ate up his forehead as a sleek black kitty cat sauntered into the room, tail high and whiskers twitching. What the—?
And then the cat pounced at Sam, its lithe body morphing mid-flight into something large, hairy, and armed with eight inch-long claws. Holy shit!
But Sam was ready for it and deflected with a powerful, bootless kick, catching the creature in its side and sending it against the wall of the church with a building-jarring thud as the hunter twisted away, going down to one knee and grabbing at one of the fallen candlesticks.
Sam was back on his feet with startling speed and grace. Dean's chest puffed with pride as Sam swung the wrought iron in a sweeping arc, putting himself back between his trapped brother and the creature as Isis growled and regained its feet. Dean noticed the thing wasn't moving as fast as it had been earlier and wondered if all the metamorphosing was tiring it or the tractor had injured it. He could only hope. They could certainly use any advantage at this point.
Muttering encouragement to Sam as his brother went on the offensive shocking the crap out of the werewolf-looking creature, Dean worked frantically. His fingers tugged and twisted and another knot came loose. C'mon, c'mon, hurry.
In front of him, Isis threw itself at the younger hunter again. Sam dived to the side, landing heavy and rolling as the familiar followed his move. It grabbed the back of his coat as Sam got back on his feet, using the momentum to toss him against the far wall. The church shuddered, and Dean glanced up as something cracked. That can't be good.
Looking back at Sam, he saw the younger man hadn't gotten back up yet. "Sam!" Dean yelled as Isis growled and slowly moved in on his brother. "Sammy!" But still the downed man didn't move.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
"Yo, bitch!" Dean tried to get the creature's attention. "Hey, pussy!"
Isis paused and turned cold yellow eyes on Dean, its grotesque face twisted into a hateful scowl.
"Yeah, bitch, you remember me, don't you, you big freak…" Behind the creature, Dean saw his brother finally move, but now he had his own problems as Margie's baby moved toward him.
"HEY!" Sam yelled, suddenly in motion again.
Dean watched in terrified awe as over two hundred pounds of solid muscle, aka Sammy, threw itself at the creature, wrapped long arms around its body, then drove it, muzzle first, against one of the other pillars in the church before the creature had any time to react.
Eyes wide in shock at his brother's brash move, Dean didn't even have time to think as the creature slumped to the ground out cold, and the roof fell in.
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Sam knew his brother was going to kill him, but he didn't have a choice. Having lost the candlestick when Isis threw him against the wall, he was once again weaponless and the familiar was moving in on Dean. The world weaved sickeningly around him, but he swallowed it back. There'd be time for concussions later if they didn't get killed first. Sam threw himself at Isis, grabbing the huge—heavy—creature and slamming it like a battering ram away from Dean, into a pillar.
The creature went limp at the same time as Sam heard the cracking and knew. The church was coming down…and Dean was still tied to a pole. Helpless.
"No!" he yelled as he used the last of his strength and dove toward his brother. With his hands still tied, there was no way Dean could protect himself against the collapse.
Grunting as something heavy slammed into his shoulder, Sam wrapped himself around his brother, his body a shield of flesh and bone, and prayed as the church came down around them.
Debris pelted and sliced, pounded and slammed…and then, silence.
And pain.
"Sam!" Dean yelled in his ear. "Sammy?"
Sam wanted to answer him. He did. He wanted to tell his brother he was fine and everything was going to be okay now. But as he slowly relaxed his grip on Dean and slid down, his hurting head finally coming to a rest against Dean's knee, Sam just wasn't so sure anymore.
What happened?
"D'n," he managed to slur, the voice more a whisper than words. "I don' feel so good…"
And then darkness swallowed him whole.
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K Hanna
Dean knew a lot of curse words. Years around an ex-Marine dad and John's hunting partners had taught him just about the full vulgar vocabularies of six different tongues, one of them a dead language. And Sam had filled in all the grade-school ones a little brother could muster.
Sometimes, though, it just wasn't enough.
Sam was on his knees at Dean's feet, slumped against him in what Dean was pretty sure was total unconsciousness. Dean's arms were tied to a pillar above his head in loosening but complex knots. There was a big-ass witch's familiar knocked out just a few feet away, claws shining in the rain, which poured in through a half-collapsed ceiling. Oh, yeah, and the witch? Somewhere out there in the dark, and the sachets' protection was buried with the walls.
Nowhere near enough curse words for this one.
Dean struggled hard against the knots, no longer caring what damage he did to his arms so long as he got loose. He had to be careful not to squirm too much because Sam's head was balanced precariously between Dean's knees, his body swaying gently with Dean's every twist.
"Sam? C'mon, Sammy, answer me. Hey, no lying down on the job, man."
Ominous silence. Dean pushed himself higher with a grunt, the bit of leverage easing the tension on the ropes and loosening them even further. Sam had almost had it, Dean was sure of it—
"Where do you think you're going?"
She appeared through the ruined doorway, limping and scorched and looking about a hundred years older than the last time Dean had seen her. Her apparent frailty hid some wicked powers, however, and Dean wasn't letting his guard down. "Sorry, this whole sacrifice thing isn't working for me, lady. Maybe next time."
She sneered at him, limping to her pet. If she got the thing awake and up before Dean got loose, it was pretty much game over.
"Sammy!" Dean hissed. "Any time now, dude."
The whole total lack of consciousness on Sam's part was worrying him a little, too.
Dean took a breath, focused on the ropes as Brunhilde leaned over to stroke her pet. He almost had it, just…little wide at the base of the hand… Grimacing, Dean took a breath and popped his thumb, swallowing the yelp of pain.
One wrist slid free.
The big cat…creature…thing stirred.
"Sammy, now would be a good time."
Sam stirred, mumbling something against Dean's leg.
Dean grabbed the pillar backhandedly and yanked, his thumb sliding into place with an oh-so-sickening snap. He'd have to remember to scream when they were done with this. But it gave him one free, almost functioning hand, and he didn't waste time making it two.
"Dean?" The groggy whisper wasn't too reassuring.
"I'm here, Sam. You still got your lighter?"
Even probably concussed and God-knew how badly injured, Sam was a hunter. He didn't ask, most likely wouldn't have been able to form the right words if he'd tried. He just fumbled a hand into his pocket, quiet gasp telling Dean his little brother had found one of those said injuries. But a moment later he was holding up a shaking, bloodied hand clenched around the plastic lighter.
The creature growled and started pushing itself to his feet.
"Good boy, Sammy," Dean praised, and yanked his second hand free.
The familiar coiled, ready to leap. The witch laughed.
Dean just smiled, flicked the lighter on…
It fizzled.
He so needed to make up new curse words.
There was no time to be gentle. With one arm, Dean scooped up the clumsy heap of his brother, and with the other he furiously flicked the lighter, even as he tumbled them both out of the path of the leaping…panther?
The lighter caught, and Dean didn't pause, just threw.
Muddy fur probably wasn't the most combustible of materials, but Sam's little demolition stunt had done something else: it had coated the familiar in a thick layer of sawdust. Dry, powdery, flammable sawdust. The cat was completely aflame within seconds, screeching and flopping around on the ground.
Dean took a page from his brother's book—or rather, took back the page Sam had stolen from the big brother handbook—and curled himself over Sam's body, shielding him from the fireball flopping around nearby.
When the witch started screaming, he thought at first it was a reaction to seeing her pet go up in flames. It only took one glance over his shoulder to see the real reason: the familiar's death throes had rolled it toward its mistress, who had, for the second time that evening, also caught on fire.
Huh. Maybe someone was having a worse night than they were.
"Sam?" Dean looked down, feeling a feeble flutter of movement below him.
"Nngh."
The screaming and the movement had stopped behind them, only the dying flames and the scorched hair and flesh smell left as sign they'd been in any danger. Dean flopped wearily off his brother, wincing as his wrenched and bloody wrists made themselves known.
Sam was lying facedown on the ground next to him, and Dean reached over and gently turned the damp head to one side. Sam blinked at him with questionable comprehension, blood a lazy trail across his cheek and dripping off his nose.
"Smells like…time y'made…l'sagna," he mumbled into the dirty floor.
Dean huffed a surprised laugh, letting his head thunk back to the ground, one hand still curled against Sam's jaw. He coughed, wincing again, and rolled his head back and forth. "I knew I never shoulda let you keep that cat."
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Geminigrl11
A four-mile trek with a semi-conscious brother—not to mention the smoky remnants of a demolished church and the possible charred remains of not only a human, but a giant demon cat in the background—was pretty much out of the question, at least at the moment. Sam gave a few muffled whimpers of protest when Dean hauled him up, but managed the few hundred yards back to the tree line without too many stumbles. Which gave Dean hope they might make it back to the Impala by morning.
He propped Sam against a thick tree trunk and set about pealing off his own dry shirt and wrestling Sam out of his wet one. Sam tried to help, of course—which made the whole process twice as long—but was shivering by the time he was dressed again. Dean pulled a page from his childhood handbook this time, maneuvering Sam in front of him, his own back to the tree with Sam at his chest. He tugged his coat over both of them and bracketed Sam's arms and legs with his own.
A few moments passed in silence, Dean straining to hear sirens or voices or anything that might indicate they were in danger of being discovered. But all was quiet.
"'R we cuddling?" Sam's drowsy voice drifted up from the crook of Dean's elbow, which Sam must have decided made a good pillow.
Dean snorted and pulled the jacket tighter. "No." He waited, feeling Sam's heartbeat through his ribs, steady and strong. "How're you feeling?"
"Like a bl'd'ng c'llapsed on me."
Dean shook his head. "Yeah, bright plan there, Boy Wonder. What the hell were you thinking?"
Sam was quiet long enough that Dean thought he'd fallen asleep. But then he heaved a sigh and turned a little. "What would you've done?"
Dean frowned. "What difference does that make?"
"Just…answer th'question."
He started to, mouth open and ready to move…until he realized he didn't have an answer, not one that would work for Sam. Truth was, Dean would've done the same thing. Truth also was, if Sam hadn't, Dean would've been flattened like a pancake.
The knowledge didn't make Dean hate it any less. Sam getting hurt for him was one of those necessary evils he tried hard to never think about. The kind that made him lose sleep when he did. The last thing he ever wanted was for something to happen to his brother because Sam was trying to protect him.
But he couldn't ignore the niggling voice that said…that said Sam felt the same way.
"Tha's what I thought." Only Sam could be all but down for the count and still as smug as a third-grade spelling bee winner.
Taught him well. Dean smiled to himself, just a little.
Sam gradually stopped shivering. Once again Dean thought he'd fallen asleep, and so the words took him by surprise.
"You ready to head back?"
Sam sounded much clearer, now…further reassurance that the knocks to the head hadn't done as much damage as Dean had feared. "Are you?"
"Yeah," Sam breathed out a tired drawl.
There were no complaints this time even though Sam was leaning pretty heavily against Dean's shoulder by the time he was upright. His spirit might have been willing, but his body was still beat to hell, and the walk was going to be a long one.
Dean couldn't find it in himself to mind. A death prevented, a case solved, and his brother by his side. All things considered, he couldn't have asked for more.
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Basic law of physics: "The total energy in a closed or isolated system is constant, no matter what happens."
Dean has a different version of that one, too. And Sam pretty much agreed with it, down to the letter.
"The ability of one Winchester to know the other has his back remains constant. No matter what happens."
- The Winchesters' Laws of Hunting Physics, by Dean and Sam Winchester. Published posthumously.
END