Category: Gen
Setting: Pre-series
Characters/Pairings: Dean (13)
Rating/Warnings: T
Note: Just a little somethin' I thought up at work the other day of why Dean hates witches as much as he does. I'm quite proud of it and hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
Disclaimer: If Supernatural belonged to me I wouldn't be writing fanfiction, now would I? So no, if you recognize it I don't own it.
Witchcraft
He would never admit it, but witchcraft fascinated him. It had ever since his first witch hunt when the witch had said a simple spell and effortlessly thrown both him and Dad against a wall. They had ganked her of course, but she had intrigued him and he did as much research on witches and witchcraft as he could stand. He hid his interest from his Dad, of course. He knew his dad would never understand his interest and would put a stop to it.
So he hid it. He learned spell after spell—the good kind, of course, never the dark—but only on nights when Dad was hunting and Sammy was fast asleep. He loved his brother, but the nine year old had a big mouth and he couldn't risk Dad learning about what he was doing. Dean knew he shouldn't, that witchcraft was bad, but he didn't buy that. Not completely at least. He had learned things, good things, things that helped him do his job, that helped him protect Sammy. He learned from the shrtiga and he had learned to make a hex bag that would keep them away from his brother. He wasn't going to make that mistake again.
He couldn't deny the dark side of witchcraft. He had been on enough witch hunts to know that witches were bad news. He consoled himself with the fact that he wasn't a witch—no black dress or anything!—he just dabbled, for Sammy's protection. That's why he went behind Dad's back, why he tried spell after spell, why he could name various plants and bones on first sight. He had to protect Sammy in whatever way he could. He had to watch out for his brother.
But the moment he saw the spell he knew he had to try it. A voice somewhere in the back of his mind screamed at him, begged him not to go dark side, but he pushed the voice away. It would be just this once, and it wasn't the darkest spell there was, it wasn't that dark at all really. And he wanted to see her again so bad, he had to see her again. So he bided his time, waited until Dad was gone a hunt and Sammy was fast asleep before he slipped out of the motel to the strand of trees he had chosen. He glanced around nervously as he scattered the necessary items, lighting the candles and opening the book with shaky hands.
"Spiritus invoco," Dean recited, eyes following the words carefully. "Perdid unum adducer sanguis sanguinem."
He winced as he raised his hand, the silver knife slicing through the skin easily and the blood dripped to the center of the ritual. He put the knife in its sheath at his side and looked back to the book.
"Ut sanguine Filii matris tempus in conspectus ejus."
He closed his eyes and lit the match.
"Ego illam, dicit sanguinem et sanguinem.1"
He tossed the match into the center, drawing back as the flames shot up and sparked. He blinked as the fire died, leaving only smoldering embers behind. His shoulders drooped in defeat. He should have known the spell wouldn't work. It was too good to be true.
"Dean?" His head shot up at the long-forgotten voice. "Is it really you?"
"Mom?" His voice cracked as he saw her just as he remembered her: blonde hair, kind face, the white nightdress. Exactly like he remembered.
She smiled, the same smile he could only barely remember. He staggered to his feet, staring, overjoyed that his spell had worked, that she was back. Her smile faded as she glided forward, her hand reaching out to gently take his still-bleeding hand. Chills ran through him; her touch was like ice, nothing like the warmth he remembered. She tisked, holding his hand so that she could see the blood.
"You should have known better, Dean." She chided, her and tightening around his. "Blood spells are dark things. You never know what might happen when you spill your own blood."
Dean winced, her icy grip beginning to hurt.
"It was the only way, Mom." he replied, suddenly wondering what he was thinking. "Blood calls to blood."
"So it was." She smiled, but it wasn't the smile he remembered. This one was cold, uncaring, dead. "But sometimes blood changes."
She blinked and he gasped as her eyes flashed yellow. The grip tightened, cutting the circulation to his hand. Dean struggled, pulling at his hand but her grip only tightened.
"You asked for your mother, Dean." The woman crooned, yellow eyes meeting his, the eyes that had haunted his family since he was four years old. "You got what you asked for, son. Don't you want her? Yellow Eyes says you can have her back for a price."
"No!" It was all Dean could shout as he pulled the silver knife and sliced, the blade catching her forearm.
She howled, his mom's face morphing into that of a true demon, black skin sunken and hideous. Its grip loosened and he wrenched his hand free, stumbling backwards as he tried not fall. The demon's faced changed, becoming his mother once more, her eyes still that deep yellow. He held the knife up, hours of training causing him to react even as his mind froze. He couldn't understand it, he had called for his mother but he had gotten a demon, or something akin to a demon. His hand shot out, cutting her hand as she reached for him once more. His eyes fell on the ritual and he didn't think as he dove forward, rolling right into and knocking everything askew. He rolled and came to his feet, knife at the ready as the thing that looked like his mother froze and began screaming. Flames shot up around her, her face twisting in agony, yellow fading to the eyes he remembered. Dean couldn't look away as he watched his mother burn for the second time. She screamed his name, betrayal in her eyes, and then she was gone in one last agonizing scream.
Dean stood there over his ruined witchcraft, staring at the place she had been. The slamming of a car door knocked him out of his trance and he took off back to the motel, leaving everything in the grass behind him. He breathed a sigh of relief as he slipped inside the room and saw Sammy still fast asleep, none the wiser to what his brother had been doing. Closing the door behind him, Dean replaced the salt lines and tended to his hand before climbing into bed and pulling the covers over his chin as he held back tears. He should have known better, shouldn't have ever dabbled in witchcraft of any kind, light or dark. Especially dark. He fell asleep to the image of his mother burning, her eyes a haunting yellow.
He woke the next morning to his Dad frantically searching the room, throwing things and shouting about witches. Dean felt his heart stop as his Dad found one of the protection bags he had hidden and lit it up, burning the little bit of good he had done with the spells he had learned. The fire wasn't even out before they had been loaded into the Impala, Sammy still half-asleep, and were flying down the highway. John didn't explain, only mumbled something about witchcraft outside the motel and drove faster. Dean sighed as he looked out the window, catching a glimpse of Sammy asleep in the backseat. He hated witches for what they had done to him, what they had almost turned him into. He hated witches, but mostly he just hated himself.
1
"I call upon the spirits to bring to me the one I lost. Blood will find blood. Blood of the son to find the mother, taken before her time. I call her out, blood calls to blood." I'm sure this translation is wrong, but forgive me. I failed out of beginner Latin and just went to Google Translate. Either way, the italicized is what I was trying to say.