Cattle of Geryon

Sam rubbed his eyes. In his journal he had listed the number of tasks he had completed for the Trickster. He only had three left.

Dean was gone, out somewhere in the city, and Sam didn't know what he was doing. It killed Sam to not know that Dean was safe inside the motel, but he couldn't very well get on Dean's case about running off when he was disappearing so much himself with the Trickster's labors.

It was best he got these done as soon as possible before he lost Dean for good.

"Trickster," he murmured, "are you ready for me?"

The Trickster appeared. Sam wondered vaguely if he had anything else he was doing, or if he was just creeping around, watching Sam. It was a rather terrifying thought.

"Eager, I see. That's good. And you'll like this one, too."

"Why's that?" Sam asked.

The Trickster grinned. "This time, you'll actually be helping some people. You like that, don't you?"

"I guess." Sam shut his journal, sliding it under the bed. "What's the deal with this? Do I need to get my cowboy boots?"

The Trickster pointed at him warningly. "Watch the sarcasm, boy. Unless you'd prefer to see Dean burn in Hell."

Sam swallowed, and said nothing.

The Trickster eyed him. "Right. If you're done, let's get a move on. Herd of cows has already trampled a kid."

Sam blinked. "Actual cows? That's the task?"

The Trickster rolled his eyes. "Ghost cows. A little different."

"Right," Sam said slowly. "Any history?"

"You'll figure it out. I'll take you straight there."

Sam huh'ed. "Great," he said warily. He waited for the ball to drop—nothing.

"I'm assuming you need your hunting supplies?" the Trickster asked impatiently.

Sam started, turning to his things. "Right. Sorry." He was low on gasoline, but had plenty of salt. "Can we stop by a gas station?"

The Trickster rolled his eyes. "I'll get it."

He disappeared, suddenly reappearing five seconds later with a can of gas.

"Great," Sam said. "Now—"

The Trickster snapped his fingers, and Sam was left blinking as bright sunlight filled his vision.

"This is fantastic," he grumbled. "Drop me in a place, no research to know where to find the bones, no way to figure out why on earth cows would be ghosts . . . thanks. Thank you so SO much."

There was, predictably, no response, and Sam bared his teeth at the sky helplessly.

A decrepit-looking barn on the horizon was a promising start. Sam marched towards it.

The barn itself was a hazard. Sam ducked beneath the boards meant to keep people out, the shaky structure moaning as the wind rushed through it.

Graffiti adorned the walls. Sam glanced at it cursorily but then paused. One drawing was of a bull, but it looked symbolic, rather than artistic.

"Okay," he muttered.

"What are you doing here?"

Sam whirled. The woman looked no-nonsense, hands on her hips, weathered face scowling at Sam.

"I, um, heard about the death," Sam fumbled. If he had time to do his normal process of research, he probably would have a better cover. "I wanted to see if I could help, um, help in some way."

She regarded him thoughtfully. "That right?"

Sam nodded, trying to look as honest as possible.

The woman pointed. "They trampled him down in the valley. Only problem is, there haven't been cows in pasture on this ground for years."

"It's kind of what I do. Looking into the unnatural and strange," Sam explained.

"You better come with me."

Gertrude was, in many ways, a breath of fresh air. The Trickster's finagling, Dean's suspicion . . . Sam was tired of lies and secrets. She was straightforward and to the point, showing Sam where the ghost herd came through, telling him what time they came every night, and getting him the ranch's old records.

Sam slammed the musty book down with a grin. "So get this. There was someone skimming off the top. Probably the manager. Cost records here show that there were eventually significant portions missing before it cut off."

"So . . . the owner found out?" Gertie asked.

Sam tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Sounds right. The real question is, did the owner kill the manager? If the ghost were his, it would make sense. But why channel it into the herd?"

"Maybe when the owner confronted the manager, the manager got the upper hand. Killed the owner."

Sam frowned. "Why would that change anything?"

Gertie's weathered hand came down on the book. "The owner probably cared about those animals. This kind of skimming comes from not buying enough feed, treating the animals poorly."

"Giving enough rage for the owner to lay a curse on the manager from the grave," Sam finished. "Gertie, that's brilliant."

"It's only brilliant as long as you can do something about it," she said.

Sam nodded. "The owner's grave. And maybe the manager's, just to make sure. Is there a local graveyard?"

Gertie nodded. "You go there, I'll watch over the field."

Sam looked at her. "No, that isn't safe. You need to stay far away."

"I don't think so. A kid died on my property, and I ain't letting another accident happen on my watch." She crossed her arms.

Sam sighed. "Fine."

The hunt was going fine, until the farmer appeared. He threw Sam into a headstone, the stone grinding into his back.

Sam managed to crawl over to the grave, sprinkling salt heavily over the bones. This would be the point where Dean would come in with the gasoline, but Dean was not here—dead, for months and Sam was all alone—so Sam dragged himself back into the fight, dumping gasoline and lighting the match as the farmer clutched at his ankle, trying to drag him away.

Too tired to cover the grave again, Sam limped out of the graveyard. Upon reaching Gertie's house, he let himself in, settling down against the couch. "Gertie?" he called.

There was no answer. She was probably still watching over the field, he thought guiltily. Sam pushed himself out of the comfortable position, dragging his feet on the way down to the field.

"Gertie!"

There was a faint moan. Adrenaline shot through him, and Sam ignored his own pains as he ran.

Gertie was lying, prone, body broken.

"No! Gertie!"

Her brown eyes found his, easing a little at the sight of him.

"Cows are the worst," she muttered through her teeth. "That's why I have horses."

Sam's hands hovered helplessly over her body. "Gertie, hang on, I'll get help," he promised. He called 911, ignoring the operator and barked out the address Gertie gave him.

"See? You'll be fine," he said desperately.

"Did you take care of it?" Gertie asked.

"Yeah, he's gone, it's over," Sam promised.

"Good," Gertie sighed. She closed her eyes.

"Gertie, stay with me," Sam pleaded. "Don't go."

She didn't respond.

Sam said nothing as the Trickster took him back. The Trickster, for once, didn't open his mouth either.

"Give me . . . give me a couple days," Sam said hoarsely, as they arrived in front of the motel.

"Very well."

Sam entered. Dean's absence would have normally felt like a reprieve—no need to lie, make up some reason for his own disappearance—but now it felt like a black hole, an absence that made Sam want to take out his gun, taste the gunpowder, and . . . Sam needed . . . needed someone. He was surrounded by death and it was all his fault, Gertie . . .

Sam curled up on his bed, and let the guilt drown him.

"Tell me you have something."

For once, Ruby seemed to be completely serious. "I do."

Dean hated how desperate he sounded. "What?"

"This." She handed over a bracelet. It was simple braided leather, nothing marking it.

"What is it?"

Ruby sat down next to Dean, entwining her fingers in his over the bracelet. "It's a way to break influence. If you put it on him, the bond between whatever entity is controlling him will be weakened. Not sure-fire, of course, but it has a shot."

"That's not enough."

Ruby tilted her head. "Okay, Dean. Here's the plan. I'll confront Sam, next time he goes out. Hunt him down, have it out with him. If he ignores me, then it's up to you. Your next step will be to leave him."

Dean reared back. "What? That's the opposite of what I should do."

Ruby shook her head. "Whatever this thing is, it's controlling Sam through his devotion to you. If you leave him, telling him that you can't trust him, he may be able to break free from its influence at the shock of your departure."

Dean leaned forward, dropping his head into his hands. "Pretty far-fetched," he mumbled.

Ruby placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Dean, Sam's lost right now. We're helping him find his way back. What if you left him like this? You know he would only end up getting himself killed, or worse, damned to Hell."

"You're right. I know, you're right, I just . . . I hate this."

Ruby tilted his face back to hers, kissing him deeply. "Dean," she murmured. "You're strong. You've always been stronger than anyone's recognized. You can do this."

He kissed her back, and it felt like he was drowning. Clinging to her was the only thing that made sense.