Title: Little Bit of Mambo

Author: Disasteriffic Kaz

Info: Zombies in the south. Sounds like fun until the bodies start dropping…and rising back up. Post 8x13 "Everybody Hates Hitler" the usual hurt/comfort/awesome!boys

Author's Note: Picking up the action kids. Get the popcorn. :P

Beta'd by the always awesome JaniceC678 :D– Friend and Muse's co-conspirator.

**Follow me on Facebook as "Disasteriffic Kaz" for frequent fic updates or just to chat!
~Reviews are Love~

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"Found this too." Dean pulled a small gun from his inside pocket and held it almost reverently. "Dude. It's a Walter PPK." He caressed a hand along the barrel in a way that made Sam roll his eyes.

"Dean. It's a gun." Sam shook his head. "You want some alone time?"

"Sammy, this is not just a gun. This is James friggin' Bond's gun."

Sam couldn't stop the snort of laughter as they reached the car. "You thinking of trading the Impala in for an Astin Martin?"

Dean looked over, horrified and tucked the gun back in his pocket. "Shut your mouth! Bond may have great taste in firearms and women, Sammy, but his taste in cars sucks. That little Italian piece of trash." He looked fondly at the Impala.

"It's just a car." Sam groaned, as he always did, more for Dean's reaction than anything else.

"It's a slut. Those things have no sense of moral fortitude. Not like my baby." Dean went around to the driver's side of the sleek black Impala and caressed a hand across the hood. "Don't listen to him, baby. He doesn't mean it."

Sam gave in and laughed. "Dude, you have issues." He grinned but gave the car a fond look as he folded himself into the passenger seat. It had been the only thing he'd had to hold on to while Dean was in Purgatory; his only piece of his brother and home, and he wouldn't trade her in for anything any more than Dean would.

Dean chuckled, enjoying the old argument, even though he knew exactly how Sam really felt, and pulled away from the crime scene, heading down the street and back to their hotel without ever seeing the dark cloaked figure in the trees; watching.

Chapter 4

Sam pushed the Impala's door closed and jogged up the stairs to their motel room. It had taken him a few stops to find everything they needed for the locating spell, and Dean had called him twice to make sure he hadn't fallen afoul of another zombie. He chuckled and opened the door to their room and then rolled his eyes. "Seriously, Dean. Maybe you two should get your own room."

"Shut up! I'm just cleaning it." Dean smirked and went back to cleaning the Walter PPK with a happy smile. "Don't get me wrong. I'm not givin' up my Desert Eagle, but this little beauty's goin' in the trunk."

Sam set his bag on the table beside the gun cleaning kit and looked at him for a moment, then started to chuckle. "Dude. You were totally in the bathroom doing James Bond in the mirror weren't you?"

Dean glared up at him even as his face reddened. "No, I was not."

Sam's chuckled turned into a laugh. "You even sang the music!"

"I did not!" Dean whipped the cleaning cloth at his head with a snarl and went back to the gun…because he had done exactly that while Sam was gone but there was no way he was ever admitting to it.

"Uh huh." Sam wiped a hand over his face to stop laughing and grabbed his laptop.

"You find everything?" Dean asked absently, running a finger along the grip of the gun with a small smile.

"Think so." Sam sat on his bed and opened the computer. "Just need to find the right incantation and that gris-gris bag should lead us right to her." He lost himself in the research for a while, he wasn't sure how long, but when he looked up again, he found Dean as he'd left him, still sitting at the table with the Walter in his hands. "Dean?"

"Hmm?" Dean looked up absently. "What?"

"Dude, how long's it take to clean a gun that small?" Sam frowned when his brother shrugged and went back to staring at the gun. He set the laptop aside as warning bells went off in his head. For what, he wasn't sure, but... "Hey, uh…where exactly did you find that?"

"In the house." Dean was rubbing a thumb over the safety, transfixed by the weapon.

"Where in the house? On a shelf? Gun cabinet? In a box? What?" Sam went to the table and reached out for it. He watched in surprise when Dean jerked it away from him. "Dean."

"What's it matter? It's mine." Dean wasn't sure why he slid his finger inside the trigger but it felt right and a feeling of danger crept over him when his brother reached out for it again.

"Dean, let me have it for a minute." Sam asked, keeping his voice calm and knowing that something was very wrong, though he wasn't sure what. He just knew, with sudden surety, he needed to get the gun away from him. "Let me see it."

Dean's eyes narrowed as Sam's fingers brushed the barrel and a white-hot rage overtook him.

"Dean…" Sam gasped as his brother erupted up out of the chair at him. Shock held him motionless for one moment too long and Dean was on him. He grunted when Dean's elbow slammed into his throat and felt his leg swept and then he was crashing to the floor. "Gah…Dean! Stop!" He froze when the barrel of the Walter PPK pressed into his temple and he heard the hammer cock back. "Dean." He stared up at his brother and tried not to let fear choke him. "Dean. Talk to me."

Dean glared down at Sam and some part of him knew something was wrong, but he couldn't seem to make his thoughts come together enough to understand what. He saw the gun pressed so hard into his brother's temple there would be a bruise there later. He saw the hammer pulled back and his finger in the trigger, and still the only thing in his head was rage.

"Dean." Sam tried to stay calm and not make any sudden moves, not that there were many moves he could make that didn't involve his brains ending up splattered across the floor. He gasped and coughed when Dean's other hand crept from his shoulder to his neck and started to squeeze. "Dean…Dean, stop. What…whatever it is you can figh…fight it." He tipped his head back and tried to breathe past the constriction, grimacing as the gun pressed even harder into his head. "Dea…" Sam's voice choked off under his brother's hand and it was too much like the Spectre that had controlled Dean and nearly made him shoot him not that long ago. This time Sam was sure the gun was the cause, and he was also sure he couldn't get it out of his brother's hand before being shot just as he was sure that if Dean did actually pull that trigger and kill him, as soon as he snapped out of whatever this was that had a hold of him, his next action would be to turn the gun on himself.

Dean watched Sam struggling to breathe and a voice in the back of his mind was screaming. The rage only grew louder in response, however, and he shoved the barrel against his brother's head hard enough to actually break the skin and the first drop of blood trickled out from beneath it as Sam gasped his name. That sound, Sam in pain, scared…it was enough. A lifetime of instinctive response to that sound kicked in, and Dean threw himself off of him and scrambled back across the floor until his back thumped into the wall and he sat gasping and cradling the gun, staring at Sam in horror at what he had almost done, yet still fighting the anger that was trying to regain control.

Sam gagged and rolled to his side, trying to regain his breath and looked at his brother. As he watched, Dean inched the gun barrel up and toward his own temple. "No, no, no! Dean!" He jerked into motion and grabbed Dean's wrist with both hands as terror blew through him and the very real fear that he was about to watch his brother blow his own brains out. "Stop. Stop!" His voice was hoarse and ragged and he grunted, grappling with him for control of the weapon.

"Have to." Dean said. It was a whisper, and even as he said it, he knew it wasn't him. His finger squeezed on the trigger and he jumped as the gun went off just as Sam jerked his hand forward.

Sam's eyes went wide in horror as Dean's hand squeezed on the trigger, the gun fired, and blood bloomed across his forehead over his right eye. "Dean!" Sam ripped the gun free of his hand. He sucked in a breath as a ghost of what had been controlling his brother touched his mind. It was a powerful compulsion. It felt…oily, vile, and he threw the gun across the room as Dean went boneless. Sam caught him as he collapsed. "No. No." He pulled him over and tilted his head, heedlessly running his fingers into the blood on his forehead. Expecting a bullet hole, he sobbed a breath in relief when he found a graze instead.

"Ok. You're ok." Sam whispered it like a plea and held on to his brother, unwilling to relinquish his hold until Dean woke up and was himself. He looked over at the gun across the room and knew, somehow, the mambo had planted it. He stared at the thing and wondered if it even was a gun or something else. Dean stirred in his arms and he tipped his head back up gently. "Dean?"

Dean crawled his way back to consciousness with the knowledge that something terrible had happened…or almost happened. His head was a splitting agony and he groaned as he opened his eyes and found his brother's face inches away. "Sammy?"

"Just…take it easy." Sam smiled and felt dizzy with relief, even with the blood still flowing from his brother's head.

Dean frowned and raised a hand to his head, touching what could only be blood. He saw a bruise coming up on Sam's throat and a trickle of blood from his temple, and suddenly the memory slammed into him. He gasped and surged upright. "Shit!"

"Stop. Just…lie still, dammit." Sam kept him from surging to his feet, knowing the wound would only knock him back down.

Dean choked with self-loathing and outright terror as he looked at the blood on Sam's face. He'd almost killed him. He remembered the feel of his finger starting to pull the trigger, and then he was shoving Sam away and stumbling to the bathroom to retch into the bowl.

Sam followed and knelt beside Dean while he heaved. He wet a towel and pressed it to his forehead when blood started to drip into the bowl. "Just breathe, Dean. You're ok. We're ok." Sam reassured him and knew what he was feeling. Sam didn't think he would ever escape the memory of nearly beating his brother to death the day he had jumped into the pit. It didn't matter that Lucifer had been controlling him; it was still his fists that had done the damage, and to this day it turned his stomach, the feel of Dean's bones breaking under his hands. It was a nightmare that never left him for long.

Dean leaned back as the heaving eased and closed his eyes with a hard shudder. "Son of a bitch." He put a hand up and took the towel from Sam, pressing it to his head himself and let him pull him to his feet where he swayed for a moment.

"Come on." Sam pulled him out of the bathroom and steered him to his bed, pushing him down and then turned to look at the gun. He was wary of touching it. He went to the trash and pulled his bloodied shirt out, dropping it over top of the gun and used that to pick it up. "Do you remember where you found this?"

Dean nodded. "It was lying in the middle of his damn bed." He shook his head. "I couldn't…dude, I had to pick it up. I don't even…" He shook his head again as he remembered the sudden compulsion to take it that had come over him. "Kept telling myself to leave it, and then, once I picked it up, I couldn't even remember why."

Sam hefted the cloth-wrapped bundle in his hand and realized it didn't feel heavy enough. He frowned and carefully peeled the shirt back. "Holy crap." The gun was gone and in its place was a blood-soaked gris-gris bag.

"What the hell is that?" Dean asked as Sam held it out.

"It's the gun…or it was." Sam groaned and went to the table, setting it down carefully. "What do you want to bet this blood's yours from the first house we went to?" He went to Dean's duffel and pulled out the first-aid kit and took it over to him. "Bokor is heavy on blood magic."

"You're saying she knew we were coming." Dean growled and lowered his pounding head into his hands. "And I walked right into it."

"You had no way to know. I should have thought of this." Sam coughed to clear his aching throat and sat across from Dean. "I'm sorry. Let me see your head."

Dean raised his head slowly, refusing to sway when the room spun. "Not your fault, dude so stop apologizing. I can fix this."

"Shut up." Sam rolled his eyes and took the towel from him, wiping blood away and smiled. "It's not that bad. Won't even need stitches." He set the towel aside and went through the kit for the disinfectant and butterfly strips.

Dean picked the towel back up and wiped the blood off the side of his brother's face. "Quit it." He said when Sam tried to bat his hand away.

"Fine. Just…hold still." Sam snorted and cleaned the graze on Dean's forehead as gently as he could while his brother poked at the small wound in his temple. "Ow, dammit. Would you just let me take care of this first?"

"Oh, quit whining." Dean stared at the small wound and the unmistakable bruised impression of the Walter's barrel on Sam's temple. His hand shook a little while Sam closed the gash on his forehead and he dropped it to the bed. "Sam…I'm sorry." His eyes fell to the bruise on his brother's throat from his hand and he groaned while Sam pressed the wound together.

"Stop." Sam sat back and saw the almost haunted look on his brother's face. "You fought it, Dean. You didn't kill me. You beat her. You have nothing to be sorry about. Now would you please lay the hell down already? You're making me hurt just looking at you." He pushed on Dean's shoulder until he went over and his head hit the pillow with a grunt of pain.

"This bitch is goin' down." Dean growled and rolled away from the light, clutching his pillow to his head.

Sam nodded and picked up the kit and the towel, taking them into the bathroom. He shut the door and then just leaned on the sink, suddenly shaking in reaction as the adrenaline rush subsided. It was too close. A quarter of an inch less and he'd have been burying his brother…again. A second longer for Dean to have regained control, and the police would be cleaning up a murder/suicide in the morning. He hung his head and tried to breathe through the lingering terror of that moment of hearing the gunshot and seeing the blood on Dean's head. He shook himself and got control of the fear. He cleaned his own wound, small though it was, and went back out into the room, steadier than he had been, and the sight of Dean alive and softly snoring finished the job of easing the fear. He took his laptop off the bed and went to the table. He had a mambo to find and he set to it with single-minded determination. She'd nearly taken his brother from him and he wanted to make her pay for it.

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Dean rolled over, put a hand to his aching head and groaned. "Time's it?" He asked as he looked up and saw his brother sitting at the table.

"Huh? Oh." Sam checked his watch. "About eight." He bent back over the runes he'd been inscribing in the table's surface. "Almost ready to try the locator spell." The gris-gris bag Dean had found sat in the center of the table while the other, the one that had nearly killed him, Sam had burned outside while Dean slept, unwilling to take the chance the mambo could track the blood back to them. "How's your head?"

Dean sat up and pressed gingerly around the graze. "Feels like a mariachi band's playin'. Other than that, great." He stood and went to the table, frowning down at it. "What are those? Norse?"

Sam shook his head and smirked. "No. It's Ogham. Ancient Celtic."

"Tracking a Voodoo witch with Ogre runes. Nice." Dean dropped into a chair and sighed. "Why is there no coffee?"

Sam snorted. "Ogham; and there's no coffee because I was kind of busy." Not to mention he hadn't wanted to leave Dean alone long enough to make a run for coffee and food.

Dean ran a hand into his hair and grimaced, feeling dried blood. "Takin' a shower. Try not to blow anything up." He left Sam grumbling under his breath and went into the bathroom.

Sam scrawled the last rune and set the marker aside, the picked up the paper he'd written the spell on along with a map of the town. He unfolded the map and laid it over the gris-gris bag in the center of the table and stood. "Glaoch mé an spiorad an chrainn amháin. Taispeáin go bhfuil sé mar aidhm agam dom." The ancient Irish didn't roll as easily off his tongue as Latin and Sam struggled to get the words of the spell out properly. He set the paper aside when he'd finished and shook his head ruefully. "Should have practiced that first." He muttered and then his eyes widened as a faint light began to glow beneath the map from the gris-gris bag. It slowly drew down smaller and smaller and finally a tiny wisp of smoke curled up from the map as the light vanished.

Sam picked up the map and held it up with a dangerous smile as he looked at the pinprick burn mark outside the edge of town to the south. "Gotcha." The gris-gris bag had burnt into a small pile of ash in the middle of the table and flared once, briefly, before going dark.

Dean came out of the shower feeling much better than he had going in and smiled when he saw the table had been cleared and a cup of coffee waited for him. "Nice."

Sam smirked from behind his laptop and pointed to the microwave. "Burgers in there. I found her location. Well," he sat up and turned the laptop around, "I found where she was when she made the gris-gris you found. Hopefully, she's still there."

"She's got no reason not to be." Dean pulled out the burgers and sat, opening one with a hungry grin. "Probably figures both our brains are all over the walls by now." The near truth of that statement chilled him, and, from the look on Sam's face, made him feel the same; too close for comfort. "We have enough fuel for the flame thrower?"

"Yeah. Checked when I went to get food." Sam tapped the laptop's screen to a map reference. "Got an out-of-date satellite image that says there's a little house right here on the edge of a bayou. Friggin' Google. Could be ruins by now for all we know."

Dean snorted and leaned over to look at it. "Great. She's on the edge of the damn swamp, so zombies, snakes, and gators. This day gets better and better."

"We could wait until morning to go in." Sam said it like he was considering it, but, really, he knew they had to go tonight. The longer they waited, the more likely the chance she'd realize they weren't dead or go after someone else.

"Nope. Tonight." Dean agreed with his brother's silent assessment. "Best chance we have of her not expecting it."

"I just wish we had any idea how many zombies she's made." Sam closed the laptop and stood, going to pack up the weapons bag. "You still wearing the amulet Momma Ava gave you?"

Dean snorted and pulled it from under his shirt. "Yes, mom." He finished the burger and grabbed his coffee. "Let's roll, princess."

"You know…" Sam shouldered the weapons bag and followed his brother out of the door. "…one of these days you're gonna wake up in make-up and a damn tiara you keep calling me 'princess'."

Dean barked a laugh. "Like to see you try, little brother." He jogged down the stairs with only a minor headache from the graze and realized how good it felt to be back in synch with his brother. It felt right. He turned at the car and looked over at him, the light above them highlighting the bruises on Sam's neck and he made a silent vow to make sure the mambo understood just how bad she'd screwed up before she died.

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Dean parked a hundred yards back from the house they were aiming for, not wanting to give away that they were there. Not that he really had to worry. It was a moonless night and the dense trees along the road beside the swamp pretty much assured no one could see them even if they were doing naked jumping jacks. He smirked at that visual and eased silently along the road with Sam at his side. They both carried machetes and Dean had salt and the flamethrower in the bag over his shoulder.

Sam reached over and tapped Dean's shoulder, pointing ahead. He'd seen something move among the trees and got an answering nod from his brother. He'd seen it as well. They split by wordless agreement with Dean going into the trees and Sam continuing on the road. He kept one eye on the movement ahead and another where he knew Dean to be, roughly, in the even deeper darkness between the trunks. It was more than likely a zombie left sentry outside the house to catch anyone fool enough to sneak in…like them. He neared the end of the line of trees, and, as expected, a zombie shambled into view with its attention firmly focused on Sam.

"That's right." Sam muttered and hefted the machete. "Keep coming, dumbass. Right here. Tasty Winchester just waiting." He watched the zombie raise an arm, and then Dean was behind it, swinging his machete and the zombie's head hit the road and rolled off to the side.

Dean grinned at his brother. "Tasty Winchester?" He chuckled softly and kicked an arm that reached for him, even with the head gone. "We'll come back for patchwork, here."

Sam nodded and stepped wide around the flailing zombie. He and Dean rounded the trees and found the house, dark wood against darker forest, with the soft sounds of the bayou waters behind it. There were no lights, and, for some reason, that made Sam nervous. He opened his mouth to say as much and froze with Dean at his side. The trees on either side of the house seemed to move of their own accord and it took a moment for Sam to realize that it wasn't the trees.

"Holy crap," Dean breathed. Zombies emerged from either side of the house and a cold feeling settled over him. "We've been set up."

Sam nodded. "She knows." He raised his machete while the first tremble of fear went through him. "Dean?"

Dean shook his head and stepped closer to his brother as the zombies advanced, a dozen at least, and he heard a rustling behind them that said running for it was off the table. "We're gonna have to make a hole and get to the car. Can't take 'em all like this." He had faith in his skills and in his brother's but even they could be outnumbered.

"We need backup." Sam spun to watch their backs, seeing a half dozen of the stitched together creatures no more than twenty feet away. "We'll call Garth."

Dean nodded, his jaw tight as he readied himself. "You stay with me, Sammy."

"Same goes." Sam took a deep breath to prepare and settle his screaming nerves. "Don't get dead." He said softly and swung as the first zombie neared.

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To Be Continued…