Chapter 2: Travelling Riverside Blues

Assumption Parish, Louisiana - October 2nd, 2005

The man drummed his fingers in an awkward staccato as he drove down Route 90 towards New Orleans. While this wasn't his first solo hunt, somehow when his father sent him off, there was a feeling that a torch was being passed, or some rite of passage was taking place. Try as he might, he couldn't help the feeling of insecurity that nagged at his brain, as if there was a test and he wouldn't be able to measure up.

Shaking his head and realizing that the radio station must have switched from classic rock to some sort of '30s band music, he quickly pushed in the cassette that was dangling out of the player and took a calming breath as the first chords of Enter Sandman vibrated through the seats. He saw a sign for an upcoming restaurant, and quickly exited, thinking that a burger and a cold one would get him in the mindset needed today- the more bacon, the better.

After his quick repast, he decided that his baby needed a bit of a meal as well and pulled to a rickety gas station. Starting the pump, and inspecting his black beauty, his concentration was disturbed by a raspy voice.

"You one of them, business-type men, tryin' to buy up our houses afore people can get back to them?" the voice was soon followed by the appearance of a rail thin black man in ragged overalls and thin cotton shirt. His sunken eyes were shaded with wariness. "Not many 'round here are back yet, but I keep tellin' mens like you that we don't need none of yah. They'll be back. This is home, this here."

Dean stood up quickly, the scuff on the car forgotten. "Uh, no sir. Just passin' through. Was it bad in this area? I was in Colorado when the hurricane hit. I'm just checking in on a friend of a friend since I was nearby. It's my first time here."

The man slowly smiled, his teeth telling a tale from decades of smoking. "This is a strange place, sir. There's a reason only certains of us call is home, and why only certains of us stay for generations. We've learned to respect theys spirits, the ones dat don't…" the man shrugged and eyed Dean carefully. "But I can tell you can feel it. Just remember, boy- respect it. You don't want dem angry wit you."

Dean kept his face as neutral as he could be, it never did well for a hunter to reveal themselves- so his father said. "That's good advice, sir. Thanks." He quickly jiggled the pump handle before returning it to its stand. He pulled out a twenty dollar bill, but paused and instead retrieved a fifty. "Uh here, you can...keep the change. For the advice you gave. Maybe I'll see you around." Not willing to wait for a reply, Dean turned heel as soon as the money was in the man's hand and he had the car started nearly before the door was closed again.

The man gave a raspy laugh and as the Impala pulled away, for one brief moment the driver's eyes met his own in the sideview mirror. He gave Dean a knowing smile and nod, before he shuffled his way back to the storefront. He placed the money in an old cash box attached to the door, right under a sign that said, "Closed due to hurricane. Take what you need, pay for what you can. Will return in November.", doffed a ragged black tophat, and disappeared into the swamp with only the echo of his laugh remaining.


Dean continued to check his rearview mirror, all the way to New Orleans. The sun was setting just as he arrived, but his father's directions were direct and exacting enough that Dean had little issue finding the slate colored shotgun house on St. Ann Street. Checking the time, he parked the Impala near the house, but kept walking past towards Royal Street. Passing some revelers in costume, Dean gave the women his signature smirk of appreciation, already planning on extending his stay for at least a night so he could let his 'bon temps rouler' a bit as well. He spun around to continue his look of appreciation, and started to smoothly walk backwards.

His swagger was cut short by the thwack of his head on a large, wooden shingle sign. "Son of a…" he muttered as he massaged the quickly-forming lump on his head. He angrily glared at the thick piece of oak, exhaling shortly as he realized that the sign's design denoting "Voodoo Supply" meant that he had reached his destination.

As he entered the store, his senses were instantly overwhelmed with sights and smells- more than the average person. To the trained eye, they would recognize the carvings on the doorframe as various protection runes and code that meant this place was there to supply more than just a tourist wanting a fake shrunken head for the rearview of their car. There was a scent in the air of sage- an obvious choice for such a store, but also hints of a cleaner, more pure and natural scent that lingered. Dean inhaled slowly and found himself relaxing- highly unusual for the man.

He stepped in farther, and could see one wall completely filled floor to ceiling with shelves containing all sorts of items. Bowls of various makes next to candlesticks made of brass, ceramics, and silver. Neatly folded altar cloths in a rainbow nestled against books. Turning his head, he saw an antique glass counter display, all sorts of spell and gris-gris supplies in baskets and bottles.

His eyes travelled upwards, wanting to inspect the shelves of bottles and apothecary drawers safely behind the counter, but his optical journey ended as he realized that there was someone behind the counter; a lovely lighter-skinned woman who was staring right back at him with a cryptic smile.

"Can I help you, cher?" she drawled out as she lightly tapped her fingers on the counter's wooden frame, "Or are you lost?"

Dean's cheeks tinted as he cleared his throat. "Uh, yes. I'm Dean Winchester- John's son. He sent me here to talk to Ms. Laveau?" He had no idea why his sentence ended like a question- this woman was staring at him like she could read him on the spot. It was a feeling he did not like. He straightened his stance and walked with mostly false confidence to the counter as the woman took in his movements.

"John did not come himself?" she queried. "It's a shame; it's been too long since dat man has set foot in this city. Then again, for many, it's not a good time to be visitin' here. There's still a lot of work to do after the troubles in August, god rest their souls" she crossed herself quickly.

"No, m'am. My dad needed to work on another...case. He sent me down, but didn't say much, other than a friend of his said you were needing some assistance." Dean raised a single eyebrow and let the question hang for a moment.

The woman sighed. "I hate that I am needin' to be calling others to do this, but sadly I do need the help. My Eti is in Chicago wit our girls for a few weeks as they finish up da store there, and I can't do this myself." She shook her head. "The storm did more than wreak havoc upon the living, cher. Those who were dead are mightily disturbed, too. This seems to have created an opportunity for those who with black hearts to...I'm not sure the word to use- practice?"

"What are you saying, m'am, what are they practicing?" Dean asked, not heavily intrigued.

She scowled as she looked to the ceiling. "I believe that there is at least one here to has decided that since the dead are already disturbed, that they might as well come back to life, too."

"Zombies?! Oh, this is so friggen cool!" Dean exclaimed, but quickly composed himself as he saw her icy stare. "Uh, sorry. You were saying?"

"We have to figure out who is responsible for dis. I do not think that this is the work of a bokor; they raise the dead with intention and to do menial tasks. What I saw the other day was more wild; uncontrolled." She smiled as she saw how Dean was trying to ascertain what the meaning of bokor was. "Where are you staying tonight, Dean Winchester?"

He rapidly blinked several times. "Oh, uh, I was going to hit up a hotel after we finish our conversation here. It looks like I have some reading to do."

"Never you worry 'bout a hotel if you are helping me. You will stay at my home. It's well-protected, has me to get you learned about da tings you may need to know to find dis person, and I have a large pot of gumbo waiting to be served in a crock pot. You can't say no, cher." She skirted around the counter and moved to close the shutters on either side of the door frame, before closing and locking the old wooden door with a loud click. "Follow me," she commanded and walked through a beaded doorway, not even allowing Dean to protest her offer. "Come on, cher!" she yelled as she dimmed the store lights.

Dean shrugged and followed the woman, surprised that the back side of the shop seemed to house a large set of rooms: an obvious storeroom, a small lounge, a library, and what appeared to be a ritual room. He paused and stuck his head inside.

"Before you ask: no. I don't kill anything larger than a chicken, and I only seek to heal and allow da loas to use me as their voice when they feel the need. You have nothing to fear from me, cher. I think that you would agree that John wouldn't have offered me you as aid if the situation were different, no?" she took the sleeve of his leather jacket and tugged. "Come now."

Dean followed her lead, distracted by thoughts of what his father's history here may have been and if the woman's words were true. Of course John would be very discerning of those he could consider allies; but to John Winchester, there was a large difference between ally and friend that was able to be trusted. Dean just didn't know what category this Ms. Laveau fit into just yet.

The woman entered a seemingly private alleyway, securing the door after Dean exited. Dean found himself pleasantly surprised that they did not even leave this route before stopping at a gate that opened up a small, but heavily planted backyard.

"This is quite handy, Ms. Laveau," he stated as a comment to the fact that they could traverse to her house without actually going onto a street.

She merely smirked, "Oui, cher. It's been helpful a time or two. And since you are now my guest, I must demand that you call me Isa."

"Isa? I thought that your name was Marie?" Dean hesitated after entering the yard.

"There has been a Marie Laveau every generation for over a hundred and fifty years. My full name is Marie Isadore Laveau. Using middle names helps with the confusion." Her eyes sparkled with unspent laughter. "You can trust me, Dean Winchester. I hold no grudge, large or small, against you or your father- something that's rare amongst those who know him, oui?"

"Well, if I wasn't sure before, then I am now that you know my father." Dean quipped as he traipsed to a large wrought iron shelf overflowing with plants. "You've quite the collection here. Monkshood, belladonna, wormwood, and I'm not sure about these others."

"That's my Ella. She's got a special gift for making things thrive. Besides, isn't locally-grown better? Dat way, I know where my supplies come from." She nodded her head to a small greenhouse shed, the dim lights in the yard revealing bunches upon bunches of herbs drying in the rafters, and a setup similar to behind her counter, with bottles and drawers along one wall. "It's rare now that I have to spend time searching for a plant- it makes life easier dis way. Come inside, you look hungry, cher." She drew out an old iron key and turned it into the door. Several clicks could be heard in succession, drawing Dean's curious attention. Isa merely winked and entered the now-open doorway.

After a delicious meal, Isa sat Dean down in her parlor and they started to talk. She realized that his knowledge of her main craft was poor at best, and proceeded to give him as much basic knowledge as she could in a night. Dean had rarely focused so intently, trying to soak up information; it was as if this woman truly cared more that he was prepared and comfortable in general than if they had enough to go off of in order to quickly dispatch the source of the zombies- a feeling he was hardly used to. He was soaking up her care and attention, but eventually the chiming of a clock made them start, and Isa noted the late hour.

"We can talk more tomorrow, cher. The more you know, the better you will be in the future. Now, you go and get your things from that beauty of a car you drive and then I'll show you your room."

Dean hurried to comply, surprised at his own eagerness to make Isa happy. She had a natural mothering feel- something that he missed. He did a quick once-over of the Impala as he grabbed his duffel from the trunk and briskly walked back to the house's front stoop.

"I'm going to set you up in my Ella's space, if that's alright. Rory's room is a bit...chaotic." Isa chuckled as she began to lead Dean down a hallway.

"Oh, Ms. Isa, I can just bunk on a couch or the floor. I don't need to put anyone out." Dean was unused to such hospitality, and that rug in the parlor seemed mighty plush.

Isa quickly turned. "Dean, my girls have been up in Chicago for three years now. You aren't putting anyone out. That bed won't be used by anyone if you don't sleep there tonight. Now, come, and stop feeling like a burden. You insult my southern hospitality, cher."

He blushed and followed. They came to wooden door that was beautifully carved at the corners and Isa ushered him into a room that was bursting with color. Dark peacock green walls contrasted with goldenrod curtains and a comfortable bed covered with a rich, sapphire red coverlet. The oak furniture's patina glowed with use and care whilst more plants occupied a shelf along the wall as well as a small bookshelf. Pictures in various silver frames lined a vanity dresser, and the thickness of the navy rug competed heavily with the rug in the parlor that Dean had previously eyed as a resting space. The room instantly struck Dean as energetic, get comforting, and the smell he had previously noticed in the store surrounded him like a soft cloak.

"This room is far nicer than I deserve," Dean said as he carefully placed his bag on the vanity bench. "You're sure?"

"Trust me, my Ella would have it no other way." Isa walked to the vanity and picked up a frame that showed two young women, one pale with dark auburn hair and another with skin like that of Isa's- a light, luminous brown, with gorgeous natural curls. "Deese are my girls. Ella," she tapped the pale girl's face then the other's, "And Aurore. Ella went to north for school, and Rory had to follow. As different as night and day, but inseparable. They just opened a store of their own up in Chicago. My Etienne is helping dem right now." She pointed farther down at what seemed to be a family picture.

Dean stood puzzled as he realized that the if the woman was Ella's mother, then this man was most definitely not her father. "That's your husband?" he questioned as he looked back at the close-up photo of the women.

Isa chuckled, already knowing his question. "Ella is the daughter of our heart. She was a gift, given to us, and we adopted her. Don't go thinking that I'm some lady of the evening now, Dean Winchester."

Dean sputtered and shook his head at her teasing, "No, m'am. I-I would never…"

She winked and raised her hand to stop him. "I know; it was merely a joke. My husband says he laughs every time that same look gets onto people's faces." She sighed and stroked the picture of the two women, "I miss them so, but dey must go on their own for now. Ella is almost done with school, but they both felt that Chicago needed them for the time being. Anyways, the bathroom is through dat door- it's connected to Rory's room on the other side. Towels are under the sink. Feel free to use anything in there, cher. I'll have a full N'awlins breakfast ready when you wake."

Dean bid her goodnight and began to unpack his duffel. He took out his toiletry bag and stepped into the bathroom. He chuckled when he saw that one half of the sink's vanity was perfectly neat and stocked with what looked like bottles of homemade lotions, bath gels, and bars of homemade soap. The other half- it was a large basket that seemed to be a melange of jewelry, hair products and what appeared to be at least half a dozen bottles of various of Bath and Body Works products. Dean easily guessed the owner of each side and placed his bag next to Ella's items.

He readied himself for a shower and stepped under the strong, hot spray with a satisfied groan. After quickly shampooing his hair, he realized that he had forgotten the bar of soap he kept in his duffel. Noting the bar of handmade soap in the shower caddy, he shrugged and picked up it, jolting as he realized the smell he had begun to enjoy was emanating from the bar. Lemon, rosemary, mint, and tea leaves? His last guess was due to the golden tan of the bar. He closed his eyes as he rubbed the lather onto his body, and wasn't very surprised to find himself already highly aroused as his hand dipped lower. He couldn't deny that pale skin, dark hair, and strong sea-colored eyes came to his mind as he allowed himself a quick release.

The next few days followed in a relative pattern of learning from Isa whilst she minded the shop mixed with investigating areas where activity was noted. Dean was beginning to understand the strength of Isa's reputation, as mentioning working with a Laveau turned closed-off New Orleans natives into vaults of information- but despite all of the given knowledge, no headway was made in this hunt. Each night ended with a shower- though the Irish Spring stayed in the duffle- and each night Dean fell asleep whilst staring at the pictures on the vanity.