Thanks again for the reviews! Think we'll be posting Sunday from now on. It's a little easier for us.
They're stopped at a roadblock on the way into the city.
Sam takes the US Marshal badge John passes him and snatches a hasty look in the rearview mirror, thanking anyone who's listening for the circles stress and lack of sleep have put under his eyes, and the fact that he hasn't shaved once during their trip. It adds years to his face, but even then, he can barely pass for being in his late twenties.
Luckily, the exhausted National Guardsman manning the block takes one look at John's badge, hears his authoritative grumble about following intel on federal fugitives, and waves them on through, already intent on the next vehicle approaching the city.
It's times like these that Sam is very quietly thankful for his dad's "Give me what I want or get the hell out of the way" attitude. It's the sort of stubborn arrogance people expect out of a federal investigator, and where Sam has the tenacity and control issues that fit the role, he knows that it would take a pretty out of it person to believe him as anything other than a rookie. John on the other hand, has decades of hard living on his face, in his voice.
Sam can count on one hand the times he remembers his father looking genuinely happy. The air of struggle, of a war long fought and far from over, follows John Winchester like a thunderhead. He could have told the National Guard he was God Almighty, come to straighten out this shit show, and they probably would have believed him.
Once they pull through, John carefully steering the truck through waterlogged streets, the task of getting into the city accomplished, Sam begins to really notice the details of the city proper, the pocket of New Orleans where they last heard from Dean.
Devastation doesn't cover it. No one word can sum up the catastrophe laid out before him.
It's the smell that hits first, a hot, sticky, swollen stink of rotting wood and refuse, the trash and filth of the city spread into every nook and cranny by floodwater and let to moulder uncombated for nearly two months. There's another scent in there, too, lurking underneath the others; unmistakable, subtle and horrifying in its implications.
Sam is inside. He is inside a truck on an empty street, and he can smell the distinct, cloying rot that only belongs to human bodies.
The sheer number of abandoned dead it would take to... Sam's stomach is turning in disgust and horror before he can finish the thought.
He has to swallow hard to keep from retching into the center console, instead clamping his mouth shut and gritting his teeth, focusing on the slums around them to try and distract himself from the smell.
Once he does, he wonders if maybe he should have just puked into his dad's box of fake ID's and be done with it.
The destruction is... complete.
There isn't a place the acrid scent of smoke and pungent stamp of decay haven't invaded. There isn't anywhere they go that Sam can't hear the sharp chop of helicopter blades or insistent wailing of sirens. There isn't a square inch of the city that he can see that hasn't been flooded or smashed or burned. It is everywhere, as far as the eye can see in all directions.
Street after street, neighborhood after neighborhood. A whole city, dead.
Houses have swollen with floodwater to the point of breaking, been torn apart by wind or debris, or have simply burned in the aftermath, the city's fire department too broken or busy to do anything but let the flames have their way with whatever they can reach. Sam has no way to tell what was smashed by the hurricane or torn apart by the survivors in the aftermath, but the picture isn't pretty. He begins to realize after the third "YOU LOOT WE SHOOT" sign, that as soon as Katrina dissipated, once the most immediate of dangers was over, the city turned on herself. Quickly, viciously, and with a thirst for blood.
They move through the neighborhoods of the Seventh Ward in a silence reserved for funerals, neither Winchester moving to disturb the sepulchral hush of the abandoned streets.
Part of Sam wants to turn to John, to ask if anything he saw in Vietnam, in over twenty years of hunting, was ever as bad as this, as big. The rest of him, the him that opened the door without question in Palo Alto thirty some-odd hours ago, the part that will always belong with Dean, crammed in the back of the Impala, is assessing, getting ready for the grim task that will be unearthing his brother in all this chaos.
Sam is quickly realizing that the usual Winchester hunting method of badgering witnesses to point them at the weird thing in the room will need to undergo heavy revision to work in this situation.
Rationally, Sam knows that there are people here.
In the short amount of time they've traveled through the city, they've been stopped enough times and listened to enough irascible National Guardsmen wanting to kick them the fuck out to know that the people who stayed are still here. There are signs of habitation on every street. Rubble shoved to the curb, rotted-out refrigerators duct-taped closed and left abandoned. Angry, defiant graffiti, freshly scrawled across rubble and standing structure alike, doing everything from searching out loved ones to directing survivors to shelter to simply shouting "FUCK YOU FEMA", it all had to be left by someone, but whoever they are, wherever they are, they're staying put, out of the way of the troops that patrol the city.
From the cab of the truck, everything is damp and empty. Cold and unforgiving in the anemic October sun.
It's as if the city is circling the drain. Logically, Sam knows that sometime between August and October it had to have stopped raining and dried out the place a little, if only for an afternoon, but after the drearily, chilled drizzle that's followed them through Louisiana and persists throughout the city, Sam can't help but suspect the place has been wet, filthy, and miserable for the whole two months since the hurricane. Everything is ripped and waterlogged, the refuse of an already unclean basin left to molder in a filthy soup. The flood water that still lingers in the low places, the dead parts of the city, is black. Not blue, not grey. Not brown, but black. Sam is almost afraid to look into the depths, to try and see what lies just below the grimy, oily surface of the flood that has only just receded.
Everywhere he looks there is debris and destruction, piled in yards and on corners, waiting for someone to finally haul it away, to clear away the choking blanket of filth and destruction and finally, god finally, let the city breathe again.
"Keep an eye out for veves, protective symbols, anything voodoo or hoodoo," John orders, eyes scanning the ruined shotgun houses that line the streets.
"This guy's got six kills already," Sam remarks, unspeakably grateful for a break in the dead silence. "Packing that much mojo, their place should be more or less intact."
"Solid theory," John nods, still scanning the streets. "Watch out for covered cars, too. No way your brother would leave the Impala in the open."
Sam snorts, "Seriously?"
"We are still looking for your brother, Sam," John retorts, flicking a mild glare at Sam.
"I know that," Sam shoots back. "But Dad, Dean would cut off his own foot before he brought the car here. It'd get swiped in a heartbeat, or flooded, or impounded, and even if none of that happened, he winces every time he drives over gravel. There's no way he'd take the thing somewhere half the roads are flooded and the other half are filled with debris. Dean would take one look at the city, turn around, find a hotel with covered parking, and steal something crappy and innocuous."
"Your brother would stay close to the case, Sam," John insisted. "There are hundreds of empty buildings—"
"Dad," Sam interrupts. "The job is one thing, but Dean's love for that car is obsessive, enduring, and borderline erotic. He'd save more time getting it out of the city and then going to work than worrying about turning around and it being stolen or crushed by a falling house every time he leaves to investigate. Also, Dean's dedicated to the job, but he's not an idiot. Half these places are kindling and the rest'll go over with stiff breeze. I mean, he's not exactly Mr. Luxury, but he's not going to share a bed with rats and toxic flood water, either. Plus, you've got whatever is left of the population, armed, desperate, and competing for limited habitable space? No way Dean bedded down here."
John's face is thundercloud black at hearing Sam's argument, but he keeps whatever objections or disapproval he clearly has to himself. They've got work to do, and time spent fighting is time they could have spent looking for Dean.
Sam looks back to the road and begins to notice that this part of the ward isn't as damaged as the other sections they've visited. Largely residential, it seems to have escaped the majority of looter's eyes, and the flooding seems to have only reached a few feet, leaving some of the more elevated homes in… well, not good shape, but better.
"That one," Sam says suddenly as they turn down a narrow, angled street. "Fourth on the right. Notice anything?"
"No major structural damage, roof more or less intact, no bars on the doors or windows," John notes, pulling up to the curb in front of a small, two story white house, larger than the shotgun houses that peppered the ward in long rows, but nothing that stood out in the shabby, rundown neighborhood that surrounds it. Its only distinguishing feature, aside from being largely untouched by the devastation that surrounds it, is a hand painted black and red sign propped against the front porch to face the street.
"Mama Nicey's Voodoo, Hoodoo, Spells, and Potions. 10am-6pm or by appointment. Nicey Carter, proprietress," Sam reads, "Well, I think we found the place."
"Looks like," John remarks, eyeing the symbols carved into the urns of herbs lining the short walk and tiny porch of the house. "Follow my lead, Sammy."
Sam rolls his eyes and strides to the screen door, knocking authoritatively before John can clear the steps.
The blue painted door opens with squeak of protesting hinges, charms on the handle clinking merrily.
"Alright," the young woman standing inside the threshold remarks casually, looking over John and Sam with a cautious, but unalarmed eye through the screen, clearly expecting an answer.
"Um… I've been better," Sam offers, not able to keep the question out of his voice at the odd greeting. As soon as the words are out of his mouth, Sam hears his father's irritated exhale, a lifetime of disappointment expressed in a single huff of breath.
"US Marshals," John flashes his badge through the screen, "We're looking for a Nicey Carter."
"It's 'Nee-see'," a voice crackles from the shadowed hallway of the house as an older woman makes her way to the front door. "And you can put that crackerjack badge away right this minute. US Marshals," the woman laughs, slapping open the screen door. "US Marshals my ass. Get your Yankee behinds in here before the mosquitos get in. We got business to tend to."
"That so?" John raises an eyebrow and crosses the threshold, Sam a cautious two paces behind, both taking in the details of the living room of the small house. The place is a curious hybrid of home and storefront, with the usual array of coffee table, chairs, and couches augmented by shelves and counters stocked with herbs, bottles, charms, and a truly impressive array of animal bones.
"Well, you're John Winchester, aren't you?" she demands. "Got another boy, 'bout ye high," She gestures to a space roughly a head above her own, "Mouthy, blonde, thinks he's god's gift to vigilante justice?"
"You've seen Dean?" Sam asks, stunned, hope flaring in his chest.
"Of course I have!" she tossed back. "He comes chargin' into the city last week, darkening' my doorstep with the same fake marshal bullshit, wantin' to know if I'm voodoo'n people to bust out in snakes."
"… I take it you're not, then?" Sam asks, just to cover all the bases.
She promptly and sharply cuffs him on the head. "Bite your tongue, boy!"
Sam rubs at his skull, frowning a little; out of the corner of his eyes, he can see his dad studiously trying to look like he didn't find that funny.
"You think anyone in this house is working with both hands, you must be outside yo' damn mind!" She fixes Sam with a stern look. "My family has been working this neighborhood since it was mud and sticks. You best believe we know better. Get one toe outta line in this city and some crazy ass hunter'll come bust down your door and burn you out."
"I'm- I'm very sorry, Mrs. Carter – I—I—" Sam stuttered.
"Well don't wet yourself over it, sugar, that rug's an antique," she dismisses, making Sam blush and John work to hide another chuckle at his expense. "Now, both of you sit down. Make a body nervous, just loomin' there like that."
She turns to the back hall where the young woman had disappeared to in the course of their conversation.
"Belinda! Get these gentlemen some sweet tea, would ya? They stupid, but they mean well."
John glares at her a little at the corner of his eye.
"Yes, Maw Maw!" comes a voice from what Sam assumes is the kitchen.
"So," John grits out. "Dean's been talkative."
Nicey turns her scornful gaze on him, now.
"You really think your boy told me your name?" she scoffs. "Come on, now. He's special, but he ain't stupid."
John opens his mouth, but she cuts him off before he can make a sound.
"You got some big fish after you, honey. You say the name 'Winchester' into the void, you better believe your name comes back."
Sam glances over at his father, wrinkling his brow. John steadfastly avoids his gaze.
"So, when exactly was Dean here?" Sam asks, desperately trying to get the conversation back on track.
"Little over a week ago," she says. "Think it was a Friday afternoon."
October 14th. That was only a few hours after Dean had last checked in with John. Sam tries to push down the feeling of disappointment. It's the start of a trail, at least.
"After we had firmly established that I am not killing people, we had a nice chat," Nicey continues. "Had some tea, cookies; I apologized that I couldn't serve him any pie. I like to keep some around, but you know, power's been out."
She pauses, smiling a little.
"Boy almost cried when he saw my blue ribbons. Best pecan pie in the parish."
Sam is torn between annoyance at Dean for being so completely unprofessional and a sudden rush of fondness at the thought of his brother being so, well, himself. Meanwhile, John just looks like he's fighting the urge to roll his eyes.
"Did he ask for anything other than your pie recipe?" John asks flatly.
The young girl – Belinda – arrives then with the tea.
"Thank you," Sam says, taking the glass gingerly.
"Don't worry, you're not gonna get ," the girl says, seeing his speculative look. "That water's been purified."
Sam sits up a little, interest peaked.
"Really?" he asks. "You know, that could be useful. What, is there a spell or some herbs for that or—?"
"You boil it," she says. "For about ten minutes."
Clearly Belinda Carter had inherited her grandmother's critical glare. John tries to hide a chuckle unsuccessfully in his glass, barely avoiding getting a shirt-full of tea in the process.
Sam glowers at him before turning back to Nicey.
"Okay, but after the pie talk," he says, trying to hide his impatience. "Were you able to point him to anyone who could be doing these killings? Maybe someone in the area?"
He takes a sip of tea and immediately regrets it. "Sweet" tea, he thinks, is something of an understatement. It's like getting punched in the mouth with corn syrup, a slug of cane sugar quickly eroding at least a year of Stanford-sponsored dental care. Sam forces himself to swallow, trying not to make a disgusted face.
"As a matter of fact, I was," she answers, smiling a bit at Sam's difficulty, "If you're looking for someone who can work that kind of mojo more than once and who don't mind gettin' their hands dirty, there's not a lot who stayed. But of those that did, one name does come to mind."
Sam scrubs his tongue around his mouth, swallowing reflexively to try to get rid of the sickly sweet taste lingering there. Dean had probably had seconds or thirds of this stuff, then asked if she would leave the pitcher.
"And that is?" he says.
"Georgina Moret," She puts down her glass. "It's a small community; I'm sure you know. I don't like to name names. But listen: I am a business woman. Georgina? That woman is crazy!"
Sam frowns.
"What exactly do you mean by 'crazy?'"
"I mean, she works with forces I would not dare to tamper with," Nicey replies. "She don't advertise it. She don't need to. Word gets around about the kind of stuff she does, the kind of stuff she can do to you."
"And you think she'd use her mojo to kill these men?" John asks, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees.
Nicey looks solemn.
"Georgina's an angry woman," she says. "Lost a lot of her people to that storm. Nobody around here's happy with the way they're treatin' us; not me, neither. But Georgina? Yeah, she coulda killed those men. Wouldn' even'a flinched."
"And that's what you told Dean?" Sam asks. "Did you talk about anything else?"
Nicey gives him a probing look.
"Mind if I ask why y'all are askin' me all this? I hadn't heard a peep outta Georgina all week. Didn't think there'd been any more of those killin's, either."
She looks like she kind of knows, already, but Sam still needs to say it out loud. He sucks in a breath. His heart clenches in his chest.
"We haven't heard from Dean in about a week," John tells her, instead. "So far, you're the last person we know of who saw him."
"Oh, honey," Nicey says gently, her eyes still trained on Sam. "Can't say I wasn't afraid it was somethin' like that. Seen a lot of people in here since the storm, wantin' me to help 'em find the people they lost. You got that look."
She smiles at him at him, and the crinkles at her temples show a little deeper.
"You're Sammy, aren't ya?"
He blinks.
"I'm… Sam, yeah," he says, confused. "What, did you… hear my name from the void, too?"
Next to him, he feels John sit up ram-rod straight.
"Didn't need to," she says. "Heard it from your big brother."
Sam is bewildered.
"Dean… talked to you about me," he asks, incredulously. "I mean, why?"
"Well, why not, sugar?" Nicey counters, still smiling.
Sam's gaze skitters away from hers without his consent.
"It's just— we haven't really… spoken in a while," he says. "I don't get why he'd—"
"That amulet he wears," Nicey tells him. "Asked where it came from. Said he got it from you. Let me tell you, there's a lot of power in that."
"Yeah," says Sam, meeting her gaze again. "It's a protection amulet. Pheonician, I think, or maybe Mesopotamian. We never really nailed down which."
Her eyes twinkle, like maybe she's in on a joke that he isn't. He thinks she's going to tell him what it is, but instead she turns, addressing her next comment just to John.
"I told your boy just what I told you," she tells him. "Seemed like he was going to head over to Georgina's next. That's all I can tell you."
"All right, Mrs. Carter," John says gruffly. "Well, if you could get us that address, we'll be out of your hair."
She nods.
"Belinda can do that," she says, standing up. "If you'll just excuse me, I got some business to take care of."
She excuses herself from the room, and Sam can hear her slowly ascending the stairs. Nicey's granddaughter draws them a crude map of the ward on the back of an envelope, noting her instructions in ball-point pen alongside it. Sam wonders if she did this for Dean, too. He wonders if Dean even made it from here to Georgina Moret's home, and if he did, what happened to him there.
They thank her and make their excuses. Sam knows that neither one of them feels like sitting around having tea time when they could be chasing a lead.
"And where do you boys think you're going?" Nicey Carter demands, bustling down the stairs, as John reaches to open the front door. "Leavin' without even sayin' goodbye. Honestly."
She strides up to them, reaches out to grab Sam's wrist and turns it so it's palm-up.
"Here you go, sweetheart," she says, plopping a small, red flannel bag in his hand.
It's a gris-gris bag, Sam knows, a mojo bag that basically acts as a portable charm.
"Gave one of these to your brother, too," she says. "Protection against evil magic. Yours is a little different, though."
She smiles again, softer.
"Keep that close to you now," she tells him. "I hope it'll help you find your brother."
Sam clutches the bag tight, feeling emotion well up inside of him.
"Thank you," he says, finally. "I— How much do I owe you for this?"
She chuckles.
"Sugar, I may be a businesswoman, but you'd best believe I'm not chargin' for much these days, and most certainly not for things like this."
John clears his throat from behind Sam.
"Well, we're very grateful for your help," he says, pulling open the door. "Let's go, Sam."
Sam nods, following him, but pauses and turns in the doorway.
"Listen, do you need anything?" he asks. "Food, water, anything like that?"
Nicey pats him on the arm with a wizened hand.
"Tell you what, sweetheart," she says, eyes twinkling again. "I ever need somethin' from you, I'll give you a call."
"That sounds fine," Sam says. He doesn't ask how she's going to get the number – figures she's got the power to pull it off if she needs to. "Oh, hey, one more thing: When you saw Dean, did you notice what kind of car he was driving?"
"Some piece of shit Camaro," she says. "Blue. Think one of the doors was grey, though."
So he'd been right about the Impala. Sam tries not to feel smug but doesn't really succeed.
"Okay," he says. "Thanks again."
"Anytime," she says. "Now get off my porch and hunt down that brother a' yours."
They pile back into the truck. He's pretty sure John's sour look is due to revelation about the car, but whether he's more annoyed at Dean for not doing the case the way John would have or at Sam for being right isn't really clear. As they pull out, John holding Belinda's map with his thumb at the top of the steering wheel, Sam opens his inner jacket pocket and tucks the gris-gris bag next to the picture of Dean that he'd grabbed from his sock drawer at the last minute, in case they needed witnesses to ID him.
"Hey," he says. "Why do you think she gave me a mojo bag and not you?"
John shrugs one shoulder, squinting out the windshield.
"Who knows?" he says. "Maybe she figured you needed more luck than me."
He means it as a joke, but Sam thinks it comes out sounding a little strained. His dad's been acting strange all day, though Sam can't put his finger on why. He wants to bring it up, but it seems stupid to start a fight when they're onto Dean's scent like this. He pushes the thought down and concentrates his attention once again on his brother.
If John had to guess, he thinks he knows exactly why Nicey Carter gave a gris-gris bag to Sam and not to him. That's not something he can tell Sam, though. It's better to keep Sam from realizing what John's planning until John can't keep it from him anymore. Sam will be pissed off enough, come this time tomorrow, provided they don't find Dean before then. No need to get into it now.
Belinda Carter's instructions aren't based on street names or landmarks, for obvious reasons, so he looks down at the map in his hand and back at the road, counting the left turns as they pass.
He lets his unconscious mind take over the numbering and turning while he takes a quick inventory of the information they have and the relevant ammo he's packing, coming up with a plan of action.
It's more likely that whatever's kept Dean out of contact happened while he was on this case than not, but John's not too thrilled about that. The fact is, there aren't a lot of reasons he can think of for Georgina Moret to keep Dean alive for this long. The absolute best they can hope for is that, for whatever reason, she chose to keep Dean around as a zombie, and that's not something John relishes hoping for. Sure, he'd come prepared for that possibility, could turn Dean back if he was still even a little alive, but then there's the aftermath... If that's what's happened, it means Dean's spent over a week with his soul in a jar and some crazy voodoo bitch plying him with who knows what kind of toxins, doing God knows what else to his body. Dean's a tough boy, but John's seen older, stronger hunters who couldn't come back from something like that.
Don't get your hopes up, he tells himself.
He wants to tell Sam that, too, but he knows that if he does, he'll never be able to convince his youngest son that he's not saying to give up on Dean or that John doesn't care. More likely than not, Sam will start punching again, and God, John will never get used to having to choose between protecting Sam and keeping his son from hating him.
It's always been easier with Dean, and he's not sure which son he's being more unfair to with that thought.
One, he counts. Two, three….