A/N – I am sorry that this chapter is so long, but I felt it was necessary. Please forgive me for my long-windedness. Also, I have only used certain sections of a pivotal scene in AHBL-P1 (spoiler alert!). Thanks. Peg
The Coven
Chapter 7
The black witch raised her head as one of her underlings nervously entered the room. He was one of her kind, but his power was pathetically weak; he was barely able to summon the smallest amount of dark energy, let alone transform back into his true form.
And the human form he had taken was ironically appropriate: a balding, stooped man in his late fifties, with an ugly face, and bad teeth. He even dressed poorly, his trousers wrinkled and stained, his shirt sporting hideous orange flowers. The black witch barely refrained from killing him on the spot, even though the urge to do so was great, and she let loose a liquid sigh instead. From the look on his face, he was the bearer of bad news.
He bowed low, his comb-over flopping back into place as he straightened. Fussing with the ends of his horrid shirt, he hesitantly raised his eyes, cringing at the cold look on her face.
"Mistress," he began, and the black witch winced at the high-pitched tone of his voice.
Maybe she should just kill him. . .
"Mistress, there had been an incident," he squeaked.
'No kidding,' she thought, although she kept her mouth shut. Surviving in Hell amongst demons and imps and evil gods, not to mention Satan himself, had taught her to bide her time, and that included keeping all snide remarks to herself.
There had been times when it had been extraordinarily difficult, though. . .
He did a little half-shuffle dance with his feet, and continued in that God-awful voice, "Two of our kin have been killed."
"Hunters?" the black witch asked, already bored. If the two black witches were killed by hunters, it could only mean that they were even weaker than the worm who cowered before her now.
"No, Mistress. A white witch," he replied, and the black witch felt a smile cross her face.
Her minion began to shake as the grin grew, revealing razor-sharp fangs.
"Excellent," she said. She licked her lips. A white witch. Apparently one with considerable power.
"And where exactly is this white witch?" the black witch asked, rising to her feet and gliding over to the shivering male, one finger caressing his cheek. A thin line of blood welled up where her claws scratched the skin, but she resisted the urge to lick her fingers.
He would probably taste as sour as he looked.
"She is in the town of Haven, Kansas, about twenty miles east of here," he answered, and the black witch wrinkled her nose at his fetid human breath. She walked around him, her fingers trailing over his shoulders and across his back.
"But she is protected," he added, ducking his head as the black witch paused in front of him. Her red eyes sparked with irritation, and the smile that had been growing on her lips disappeared.
"Protected? How?" she spat. She glared down at the sniveling man, undisguised loathing on her face.
"She is surrounded by fresh water. There is only one access, a wooden bridge, which has been blessed," he squeaked. He cowered, trying to avoid the black-witch's leer.
The black witch stared back, her mind mulling over his words. Protected - and quite well. Fresh water was an effective barrier, a natural part of the human world that wouldn't allow any evil to cross it, if properly enchanted. And a blessed wooden bridge would definitely keep her and her kind out.
Still, the white witch would have to leave her sanctuary at some time. . .
"There are two who are with her now. Young hunters, brothers, we believe," the male witch whined, practically groveling at her feet.
Hmmm. Two hunters and a white witch. This certainly didn't bode well for her plans. Action needed to be taken, and soon, or all she had set in motion would be for naught.
The black witch strode back to her chair, ignoring the mildewed walls and crumbling roof of her hideaway. The decrepit house was located next to a forgotten cemetery, the perfect place to stage her coven. The location was isolated, far away from any human interference. She sat, setting her chin upon one clawed hand, her mind working. Finally, she began to grin, an idea forming.
"Capture one of the hunters; I care not which. His brother will be compelled to rescue him from our clutches, and the white witch will be forced to accompany him. That will drive her from her haven," she said to the repulsive man.
His response was to repeatedly bow, muttering, "Yes, Mistress," and "Very clever, Mistress." She felt the urge to decimate him where he stood, but, summoning up a patience born of eons of suffering, she shoved it away, focusing instead on the white witch. Her mouth watered at the thought of taking her enemy's power, of ripping her flesh from her feeble, human bones, of drinking her lifeblood while it still steamed with heat.
"Go, now, and don't return without the hunter," the black witch ordered. A dozen bows later, and the worthless male witch was gone, leaving the black witch to her thoughts.
She leaned back in her seat, her talon-like fingers grasping the arms of the chair, and satisfaction etched on her face. A white witch, within her grasp, and two hunters as well. Her power would increase exponentially, far greater than that of a demon or a demi-god. Tomorrow night, as the full moon peaked, she and the handful of half-breeds that had brought sacrifices would summon their power. Together, they would begin a reign of terror never before seen.
An evil, hellish smile formed on her mouth.
Things were definitely looking up.
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Sam raised both arms over his head, stretching his aching back and letting out a huge yawn. He bent his neck to either side, moaning in satisfaction at the slight cracking sound. He reached for his Coke, wincing in distaste as the last of the lukewarm liquid slid down his throat.
"C.J., is there any more soda?" he asked, his eyes falling on the woman seated on the floor across from him. She was propped against the couch, her legs lost under the coffee table.
"Hmmm? Oh, yeah, I think so," was the detached response. She waved one hand towards the kitchen, her eyes never leaving John's journal. Sam rose to his feet, feeling his knees pop, and he smothered another groan of relief. Checking the clock on the mantle, he was surprised to see it was almost six o'clock.
He carefully skirted the book-laden coffee table, pausing long enough to check on his brother. Dean was sprawled on the couch behind C.J., his long form taking up most of the available space. His eyes were closed, and he appeared to be sleeping peacefully.
Or not.
"Dude, grab me one while you're at it," Dean mumbled, although his eyes remained closed.
Sam only shook his head. Research had never been Dean's thing; his brother was more action-oriented, almost always leaving the data gathering to Sam. But for most of the day, Dean had been unusually helpful, plodding through the many books and documents C.J. had accumulated about witches. Still, even Dean had his limits, and about an hour ago, he had declared that his brain was fried, and took over the couch, almost immediately falling asleep.
Sam eyed his dozing brother for another moment, switching his gaze to C.J. She appeared to be completely engrossed in his father's journal, her hazel eyes rapidly scanning each page. Whatever animosity Dean and C.J. had felt for each other last night had almost completely disappeared, and Sam was grateful for the respite. After this morning's discussion on the dock, there was already a strained tension between the two brothers, and adding C.J. and her questionable lineage to the mix could have been a disaster.
Instead, after a hearty breakfast, the three of them had settled in the living room, both brothers agreeing that they would stay long enough to help C.J. destroy the coven. Unfortunately, their first course of action was research. Even though C.J. had battled black witches all her life, even she didn't know all that much about covens. With the stereo on, playing classic rock, and dozens of books littering the coffee table, they had waded through the reams of contradictory information available on witches. It had proved to be a frustrating experience, with very little actually recorded on the activities of full-blooded witches, or covens. Even less was written about black witches that escaped from Hell via a portal; apparently, it had never happened before.
Sam strode into the kitchen, yanking open the ancient humming refrigerator and searching in vain for a Coke. The day had been long, but hardly boring. C.J. and Dean had squabbled almost constantly, arguing over music (David Lee Roth versus Sammy Hagar, with Roth winning for best front man, but Hagar deemed as having the better voice), movies (C.J. was a lover of all things Alien, especially Ripley, while Dean professed his admiration and lust for Sarah Connor in the Terminator movies), food (pizza versus Chinese, and this time, pizza won, hands down, so long as it had lots of onions). Sam had rarely interjected, his mind still on his conversation with Dean earlier that morning, his mouth going dry at the thought that this time, next year, there might be no Dean to argue with.
It had been difficult to concentrate on his laptop, between thinking about Dean and watching his brother's interactions with C.J. The two of them may have bickered back and forth, but C.J. had also made his brother laugh, and more than once. It had been so long since Dean had truly laughed – without a shred of sarcasm or derision – that Sam had been startled by the sound.
And she had told them about their mom, relating funny stories of two young girls getting into mischief, and rarely getting caught. For Sam, it had been refreshing, C.J.'s tales showing him a side of his mom that he never knew. Dean had been fascinated as well, asking C.J. pointed questions about their adventures and nodding at some of her comments.
"C.J., there's no soda left," Sam said as he entered the living room.
"I'll go," Dean piped up, practically leaping off the couch, and tugging on his boots.
"A drive would be good," he added, as Sam started to protest.
C.J. finally looked away from the journal, a small frown on her face. She glanced out the window, noting the setting sun. "Can't you guys make do with water, or something?" she asked.
"I'll grab some take-out, too," Dean offered. He snatched up his car keys, and was already moving towards the door. "I'll only be fifteen minutes."
Before either Sam or C.J. could argue, the screened door had slammed shut behind him, and, a few seconds later, Sam heard the roar of the Impala. Forcing back the knot of worry in his stomach, Sam re-took his place on the couch, peering at his laptop and sighing as the search engine announced that it found nothing new. Only one thing of interest had popped up at all: four children had been declared missing, all of them within a hundred miles of Haven. When Sam had related this news to C.J., she had only nodded, chewing thoughtfully on her lower lip.
C.J. closed the journal, tossing it on to the table. "Well, I'm glad I stick to witches. All these other. . .things. . .are just too creepy for me," she announced. She slid on to the other couch, shaking her head at Sam. "What you guys deal with. . .its pretty scary," she added.
"Yeah, I guess," Sam replied. Something had been gnawing at him all day, and now that Dean was gone, he decided to broach the subject.
"C.J., you said you and my mom were best friends," he began. C.J. only nodded in response, a glimmer in her eyes.
"So, did she know you were a witch?" Sam asked.
C.J. gazed at Sam, her face pensive. "Of course she did. It was kind of hard to keep it a secret, after all," she answered.
Sam leaned forward, intrigued. "What do you mean?" he asked.
C.J. laughed. "Well, first of all, your powers show up right at puberty, which is only the most awkward stage of anyone's life. And then you have little – if any – control over them. Strong emotions would set them off, in ways you can't imagine. I'm just lucky I'm a protector, and not an aggressor."
Sam gave her a blank look. "Protector? Aggressor?"
C.J. nodded. "Yes. All witches – black or white – have many abilities at their disposal. Telepathy, telekinesis, the power of enchantment, and the gift of healing are just a few of the powers that all white witches possess. It's just that the strength of a particular power varies from witch to witch. In my case, my strongest power is that of protection, both of myself and others." She paused, adding, "An aggressor has the ability to attack, without provocation. Most black witches are aggressors. My power can only be summoned if I – or someone else – is attacked or threatened first."
Sam settled back against the couch, remembering the brilliant golden light streaming from C.J.'s palms last night. A protector, indeed. He was quiet for a long moment, mulling over her words. "So, how did my mom react when she found out?" he asked.
C.J. was silent for so long, Sam was afraid he had ventured too far. Her hazel eyes met his, and he was startled to see resignation and apprehension in their depths. In a moment of clarity, Sam rose to his feet, walking over to the picture on the wall.
"My mom wasn't surprised at all, was she, C.J.?" Sam asked softly. He didn't wait for her answer, closing his eyes as the memory washed over him.
He and the Yellow-Eyed Demon were transported from the ghost town to his nursery, watching as the events of twenty-three years ago unfurled. It was surreal, seeing himself as an infant of six-months, lying in his crib, the colorful mobile spinning slowly above him.
A shadowy figure is bending over the crib, and Sam watches with growing horror as the figure uses his fingernail to slice open his wrist. Blood – demon blood - oozes from the wound, dripping down and into baby Sam's mouth.
Suddenly, his mother enters the room, her face fierce.
"It's you!" she seethes, and the figure turns, only his gleaming yellow eyes visible.
Sam turns to the Yellow-Eyed Demon, horror in his eyes. "How does she know you?" he asks, but the demon only chuckles in reply.
Suddenly, his mother is thrown against the wall by an unseen force, and she is dragged up to the ceiling. Pinned, she is helpless and screaming, screaming. .
Sam wrenched his mind from the horrible memory, spinning around, his blue-green eyes clouded with shock.
"My mom was a witch," he whispered. It wasn't a question, but C.J. nodded in response, her own features twisted with worry. Sam ignored her, returning to the couch and collapsing on it, too overwhelmed to speak.
It all made sense now, at least to him. For weeks, Sam had turned the events in the nursery over and over in his mind, wondering how his mother could have known the demon. He had finally decided that it was the demon's sick mind game, one of many that he had played on the Winchesters over the years. But the knowledge that his mother was a witch changed everything.
What the demon had showed him was the truth.
A hand settled on his shoulder, and Sam started. He gazed into C.J.'s concerned eyes, seeing all his sorrow reflected there.
"Sam, I know this is a lot to take in. But, yes, your mom was a witch – a white witch, like me," she said softly.
"She tried to save me," Sam choked out, and suddenly he found himself wrapped in C.J.'s arms, an embrace that felt both foreign and comforting. After a moment of hesitation, Sam returned the hug, trying to control the tremors racing through his body.
"Of course she tried to save you. You were her baby," C.J. replied softly. She held him a moment longer, finally pushing herself away, one hand cupping his cheek.
"She tried to save you, but it was beyond her power to take on a demon. Your mom was a seer, not a protector, and so she was totally out of her element. I only wish I had been there. . ." C.J.'s voice trailed away, her own eyes growing distant and wistful.
"A seer. You mean, she had visions, like me?" Sam asked, disbelief in his tone. C.J. looked momentarily surprised, and Sam realized too late that she had no knowledge of his abilities.
Abilities that he had always attributed to the Yellow-Eyed Demon. . .
"You have visions?" she asked, standing and starting to pace around the clutter in the room.
Sam sighed. "Yeah, but I always thought they were sent from the demon. They always seemed to have something to do with him. In fact, since Dean killed him, I haven't had any visions at all." He rubbed at his forehead, a part of him relieved that the frightening images might be gone forever.
"Hmmm," was C.J.'s only comment. Sam watched her frenetic pacing, a knot growing inside him. His mother had been a witch, a fact kept secret all these years, even, it seemed, from his. . . Sam slowly shook his head in denial, even as he voiced the truth.
"Dad knew, didn't he? He knew my mom was a witch! That's why he took up hunting so easily after she was killed," he said, all the pieces starting to fall into place. John Winchester hadn't hesitated to pursue the demon after Mary had been killed; he had never questioned his sanity, or denied what he had seen. He had known, all along, that such things existed.
C.J. gave a rueful smile. "Of course your Dad knew, long before he and Mary were married. At first, he was. . .uncertain of their future together, but, in the end, his love for her outweighed any misgivings he may have had about her. . .abilities."
Her words seemed carefully selected, and Sam frowned, sure that he was missing something. Suddenly, a familiar, piercing pain sliced through his head. His face cringed in agony, and a low moan escaped his lips. His earlier comment that he no longer had visions echoed in his head, and he didn't know whether to laugh or cry. He squeezed his eyes shut as an image formed, and Sam felt his blood freeze:
Dean, bound and tied atop a crumbling crypt, his face bloody and bruised, his clothes filthy and torn. It is dark, but light from the moon – the full moon – illuminates the scene, and Sam sees broken headstones and a wrought iron fence. An old house, its walls cracked and crumbling, the roof crooked and sagging, lies just beyond the cemetery. Four children are bound and huddling at the foot of the crypt, the youngest no more than three years old. A form – feminine but somehow wrong – slowly approaches the crypt, a clawed hand reaching out to caress his brother's cheek. Dean twists away, his mouth forming words, but Sam cannot hear them. The witch – for Sam knows that the creature is a black-witch – slaps Dean, and blood wells from his lip. The witch leans in and kisses him, licking at the blood, smiling maliciously as Dean gags and coughs, his face going deathly pale. With a whispered word in his brother's ear, the black witch raises her hands, her fingers wrapped around a serrated blade. She mumbles something – a chant, echoed by four other witches – all half-breeds - each standing at a compass point and surrounding the crypt. Each witch bears a knife similar to that of the black witch. Darkness spreads across the sky, blotting out the moon, and the wind gusts, throwing up dust. The witches are shouting now, and Dean is struggling against his bonds. Suddenly, the black witch stops chanting, and the knife descends quickly, thrust to the hilt into Dean's heart. He lurches, agony in his eyes and blood pouring from his chest as the witch removes the blade. She runs her hands through the wound, rubbing Dean's blood over her face, her red-eyes glowing. And Dean, Dean is dying, he is dead, the life fading from his hazel eyes. . .
"SAM!" C.J.'s shout wrenched him from the vision, and Sam staggered backwards, falling against the wall. He slid to the floor, his shaking legs unable to support him. Tears streamed down his face, and he let out a sob, the image of his brother still seared on his mind.
"Sam, what's wrong?" C.J. asked, her one hand clenching his arm.
Sam wiped his face with one trembling hand, forcing the image away. He raised his eyes, fear mingling with sorrow.
"Dean. The black-witch has Dean," he whispered.
TBC
