A/N: I just joined Twitter almost exclusively to follow two people: Misha Collins and Feminist Hulk.
A bit of background: Marie Laveau was a free black woman in New Orleans in the 1800s. She's known as the Queen of voodoo. As for the Lalaurie mansion, it's a really famous New Orleans haunting and the specifics will be elaborated on in future chapters, if you don't already know the legend. It's pretty gruesome.
Chapter 11: In Which Orpheus Lived Happily Ever After
"So what the fuck did I just agree to anyway?"
Rufus had foregone the glass Bobby had offered and was downing the Johnny Walker Blue straight from the bottle.
Bobby sat silently at the wheel, trying to select his words with caution. As they approached Laramie, lightning storms were illuminating the sky and the land in brighter and brighter bunches. Empty fields where cows should have been grazing raced by, brown and wilted.
"It's a big bang job," he finally said. "I'd do it myself; only brought you for that gangly pair of legs."
"You misogynistic animal," Rufus chuckled.
"Ever meet a gal named Jayma McGee?" Bobby asked a few hours into the ride to Wyoming.
"Never met her," Rufus said. "But a buddy of mine ran into her about two years ago, Duncan Anderson."
Duncan was a mutual acquaintance; he'd sold Bobby a couple of good charms. Bobby realized that he hadn't heard anything from Duncan in about two years.
"Town in Arizona was ripe with demonic omens," Rufus continued, "he and his partner went in. Turns out it was just a little witch, but she got the better of 'em. She released swarms of locusts and scorpions, five times the regular size."
"Sounds biblical," Bobby commented.
"I think it was one of those Seals," Rufus pondered. "Whole town was dead in about eight hours."
"What happened to Duncan?" Bobby said.
"Stung by a scorpion," Rufus answered, "but he managed to drag his ass to my house before he died, gave me the witch's name. Jayma McGee."
"You go after her?"
"She's been off grid for the last twenty years, far as I could tell. Why, you find her?"
"What's wrong with knocking on the door?"
"That's where the gift shop is. Mama Oya will be back in the main house."
Kristen rattled the iron gate and shouted down the narrow alley again. The afternoon sun was beating down on the four travelers with the added intensity of New Orleans humidity. For Dean, the cramped and tiny streets of the French Quarter, with the buildings crammed together and their loopy European architecture, made everything worse.
"So, this priestess," Sam was saying, examining the window display, "she was your aunt's landlord? You know her?"
Kristen kept rattling the bars.
"Jayma moved down here after Hurricane Katrina," she told him, leaning her forehead against the gate. "I stayed here during the summer and worked in a repopulation bureau. Course I didn't help much since most of the people on my lists weren't scheduled to be coming back and… Damn it!" Kristen banged her head on the bars. "I bet I was talking to a bunch of dead people."
"How does seeing dead people escape your notice for twenty years?" Dean grumbled, taking a seat on the steps to the gift shop. He peered into the darkly lit room and saw a young woman chewing green bubble gum and basking beneath a shaking fan. Adam was leaning against her desk, trying to ask her where Mama Oya was, but she was engrossed in a copy of Bitch magazine.
Dean hated the South. He didn't enjoy sweating his guts out and even with all the bikinis, he didn't like the beach. Sand was awful difficult to clean out of, oh, anything. That fan in the gift shop was looking so inviting… and the chick wasn't bad either.
"I'm gonna go see what's taking Adam so long—"
But Adam was already striding out.
"Ghost tour starts at eight," he said, "but Oya is out on a call. Cashier said she should be back for dinner around six."
"Two hours to kill," Sam pondered. He turned to Dean. "Might as well find a place to crash."
"I'd kinda like to find Bourbon Street," Dean said, standing up. He looked around at the street signs, trying to remember how many blocks ago he'd seen the people with the beads and the cocktails wandering around.
"It's two blocks south," Kristen called out, her face still pressed against the bars. "Bring me back a daiquiri."
"Kristen," Adam said, taking her shoulders and attempting to gently pull her away from the gate. "Let's just go somewhere, sit down—"
Kristen shrugged away and meandered into the street.
"I have been trapped in that car, doing Sudoku and listening to you and Dean belch and moan for the past ten hours!" she squalled, stomping her foot, clenching her fists at her side. "I haven't slept in like a week, I'm a freak of nature, God is dead and I would just like to stand here miserably until she gets… Pascal?"
The three brothers tuned in unison to see what Kristen had recognized. A tall, bronze-skinned man was heading toward them on the sidewalk with a net slung over his shoulder. He stopped in his tracks when he saw Kristen.
"Krissy! Dat you?" He spoke with a thick Cajun accent and dropped the net to receive Kristen, who'd leapt into his open arms smiling like an idiot. "I ain't seen you in so long, c'mere!"
And then he tipped her back and planted an open-mouthed kiss on her, sliding one of his arms lower down her back.
"What the hell?" Adam exclaimed, drawing out every syllable. Sam and Dean stepped up next to him, throwing their shoulders back. Kristen laced her fingers in his tousled hair and pushed his head away.
"Pascal, this is my boyfriend," she said breathlessly, still smiling. "Adam, this is Pascal, he's one of Mama Oya's other tenants."
"Boyfriend?" Pascal echoed, leaning in as if to nuzzle. "T'ought we talked about this. When you in the Quarter, when you can smell the gumbo cookin', you're mine."
"Too bad the only thing we can smell is Old Man Whiskey over there," Dean said, nodding to the bearded homeless man clutching a glass bottle and nodding off on a stoop across the street. "I'm Adam's brother, Dean," he added, grabbing Pascal's hand off of Kristen's waist for a strong handshake.
"And I'm his brother, Sam," Sam interjected, brushing back his jacket so that Ruby's knife flashed at his waist. Adam threw an arm around Kristen's shoulders and the brothers had Pascal effectively surrounded.
"… When you start datin' the Jets?" Pascal asked, raising an eyebrow. "You all ain't gonna start dancin' and snappin' your fingers, right?"
"We're here to see Oya," Kristen explained in a low voice, trying to contain her mortification.
"She's out," Pascal said, picking up his net and pulling out his keys.
"We heard," Adam replied, narrowing his eyes. "We'll be back later."
"Now wait a minute," the Cajun insisted, opening the gate. "You guys want a beer, hang out at my place til she gets back? No hard feelings about the, uh…" Pascal looked at Adam and puckered his lips just a little.
"He's fine," Kristen breezed, nudging Adam toward the entrance. His body went stiff and he grimaced, but he allowed her to drag him along.
Dean and Sam hesitated a moment. Dean was the first to follow.
"This dude better have outstanding AC," he muttered.
Mama Oya Williquette Keneday arrived about an hour later, spattered in blood. Apocalypse had all the alligators in a frenzy, she explained, and a couple of fisherman by the Honey Island swamp didn't have money for a doctor to stitch their wounds. She quickly ushered her new guests into her house behind the gift shop, shutting down Dean's gruff demands for her to sit down and get right to business.
Oya left them in silence while she made tea, after briefly clasping Kristen's hand and offering her condolences for Jayma's death.
Adam and Kristen bickered under their breath for ten minutes about Pascal before Oya swept back in with a tray. On it were a brass kettle, four green and white porcelain teacups, and a purple coffee mug. Oya, now dressed a bloodless tunic and flowing skirt, sat in a rickety chair opposite the couch where Sam, Dean, Adam and Kristen were squished together. She took a few silent sips of her tea before settling her eyes on Sam.
"Sobriety's treatin' you well," she started. Sam's eyes widened. "I'm a healer by trade and I have healed my share of junkies. How long's it been since your last binge?"
"… Like a month," Sam admitted after a moment.
"I have something that will ease the cravings—"
"Listen, lady," Dean cut in, "we're not looking for any folksy magic to cure all ails." He wrenched himself from the dusty couch cushions to amble around the room, poking at various portraits on the wall, the tables with herbs and jars and keys and other weird odds and ends. "I take it you have some mystical mojo workings and you must be pretty harmless since none of the local hunters have ganked you. And since you heard about the Apocalypse, you probably know that we have some other things on our plate right now. So, our bottom line is this…" Dean leaned over Kristen and pointed at her. "Can you fix her?"
"The girl's not a windup toy," Oya replied caustically, raising an eyebrow.
"Actually, I kind of agree with Dean's phrasing," Kristen said.
"I kept telling Jayma," Oya said, clicking her tongue in disapproval, "keeping you in the dark was a mistake. It cost you more than just years of training." Oya's eyes wandered to Adam. He faltered under her powerful gaze and curled his arm protectively around Kristen, who was leaning forward.
"I can still control it, right?" she asked hopefully.
"His dying helped," Oya said, nodding to Adam again.
"Helped?" Sam shot up in indignation. Oya was a short woman, but she didn't shrink from Sam's tall, menacing figure. "Explain how it helped!"
"You started dreaming about this little dreamboat after he died," Oya alleged. "Right? Jayma said you had recurring erotic visions of him—"
"Yes, yes I did," Kristen interrupted in a hurry, her face going crimson in a second, "your point has been made, please stop talking about it."
"Erotic?" Adam asked, a grin overtaking his face. "Recurring? So, you had a dream about me every night—?"
"Not every night," Kristen said in a strained voice, patting his knee. "Sometimes I grabbed a random guy off the street to sate my lust."
"Well, we all know how much you love making out with dudes on the street," Adam shot back, retracting his arm and folding his arms over his chest.
"Are you seriously still mad about that?"
"Nah, why would I be mad about—"
"Children!" Dean shouted. "Shut your traps! The lady's trying to talk."
There was an awkward pause. Oya was trying to contain her laughter.
"His soul reached out to you," she explained when her giggles had diminished. "It forged a strong connection with the spiritual plane, the first step for a Seer to take. I can't 'fix' you—but I can train you."
"Sign me up!" Kristen chirped. "Do or do not, there is no try!"
"You'll need a full night's sleep," Oya said. She stood up and hovered over Kristen, handing her the purple mug. "This tea has anise extract in it. It'll keep you inside your own head." She drew herself to full height, clasping her hands together, and turned to Dean. "You're all welcome to Jayma's quarters, free of charge. I haven't touched her rooms since she left for San Diego."
Resentment was still boiling in the pit of Adam's stomach. He'd spent the whole of high school watching Kristen pine over another guy—now the image of Pascal kissing her was seared in his brain.
The resentment evaporated when he and Kristen stepped into Jayma's old room. Nothing was out of place, or rather, nothing was different. The last time Jayma had been in this room, she'd been alive. Drawers were still open, jewelry lay scattered over her vanity and the sheets on the bed were still twisted and mussed.
Adam stood off to the side as Kristen stepped haltingly toward the closet. She pulled out the first shirt her hand brushed and held it close to her. Adam enfolded her in a tight embrace and she shuddered, unable even to cry.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I want to hate her, but…."
"Don't apologize," he said simply. He reached over with one arm and flipped the light off. Dim sunlight streamed through the cracks in the thick blue drapes, allowing Adam to see enough to sink onto the bed, pulling Kristen down on top of him. He laid her head on his chest and stroked her hair. "Just try to get some rest."
"I don't want to," she confessed. "She's in Hell, Adam. What if that stuff doesn't work, what if I see her, if I go there?"
Adam kicked off his shoes, then reached down and pulled off her sneakers. He grabbed the comforter and yanked it over both of them, even in the still heat of the room.
"You ever hear that Greek myth about Orpheus?" he asked. Kristen sighed and shook her head, grabbing a pillow. "It's about this guy, this musician. His girlfriend Eurydice dies, and he goes down to the underworld to bring her back. He goes to the king and queen, begs them to let Eurydice go and plays his music for them. The queen is so moved, she lets him take Eurydice back. He takes her hand and leads her out of the underworld."
He slid one arm beneath Kristen's head, using his other to twine his fingers with hers.
"I'm Orpheus," he finished. "I'll always be here to bring you back."
Kristen clung to him and in a few minutes she was fast asleep. Adam prayed he'd never have to tell her the real ending.
"I don't trust that old lady as far as I can throw her!"
"You could actually throw her pretty far, Dean."
Sam was sorely not in the mood to deal with Dean's rampant suspicions, but he couldn't fault his brother. Witches, whether or not they called themselves priestesses, were generally iffy to mix with. Sam had almost decided against leaving Adam and Kristen alone, but Dean was resolute on going to see the Lafitte brothers and not being, as he termed it, 'glorified babysitters'.
"That whole family is rotten," Dean seethed, knocking past passerby on the sidewalk with gusto. "If Kristen wasn't so delusional, I wouldn't believe her doe-eyed innocent act. That grandma, you said Cas thought she was a creep, and the aunt, this Jayma chick: pulling way too many strings not to have blood on her hands. Crowley knew her, and that means she was in deep with the demons."
"Dad must've thought she was okay," Sam mentioned.
"Doesn't say anything about her in his journal," Dean countered. Sam thought that could be chalked up to his interest in hiding Adam, but didn't bring it up. Dean abruptly stopped walking and turned to Sam. "Isn't it just too big a coincidence? Our brother falls in tortured adolescent love with some girl with the mystical ability to solve all our problems."
"You're not seriously suggesting that thing again," Sam said uncomfortably.
"You mean Kristen getting down and dirty with Satan? Why else are we here?" Dean asked in disbelief. "We should be with Bobby, going after Pestilence, but you insisted on this little road trip. Why is this worth anything if she can't put Lucifer back in his cage?"
"Gabriel is going to kill him," Sam asserted, as if it solved everything. "Besides Michael, he might be the only thing capable of killing Lucifer, because we sure as hell weren't able to."
"Thousands of years puttering around on the sidelines," Dean snapped, "you honestly think he's got the cajones to do it?"
"I think he knows Lucifer better than we do. I think he has a weapon that will kill Lucifer. And I think he loves his porn and his candy way too much to let Lucifer take them away."
"… You have a point there," Dean conceded, and they continued on their way.
The Lafitte brothers had designated their meeting spot in Louisiana's oldest bar, the aptly named Lafitte's Blacksmith Shop. It truly looked like it was falling apart. Half the adobe was ripped away from the walls with faded maroon bricks peeking out, the flimsy gray wood doors were held on by exhausted hinges, and the windows shooting out from the water stained roof were boarded up.
Remembering Stana's advice, that tourists flocked to the piano player, Dean chose a seat in a far back corner. The front of the bar didn't even have electricity, so Dean had to flick out a lighter for the candle at their table. He and Sam hunched close together, warily scanning everyone in the joint. It was only mildly crowded and the atmosphere was so grim, it might as well have been a Midwestern wake.
A cute little blonde took their drink orders (whiskey for Dean, beer for Sam) and they sat in silence, waiting for their fellow hunters.
"I thought we were on the same page," Sam admitted after a while. "I thought we were here to help Adam; kid's not experienced enough to protect himself yet."
"Dad'd love that," Dean said bitterly. "Keeps the kid hidden away, kid dies and gets caught up in this mess."
"All roads lead to hunting," Sam mused.
Dean turned to him, about to disagree, but the Lafitte brothers entered the bar at that moment. Stana and Kyle Lafitte had a penchant for dressing as the other's mirror image. Stana was wearing a blue muscle shirt and black jeans and she spotted Sam and Dean first. Kyle was wearing loose blue jeans with long-sleeved black shirt that read 'NEW ORLEANS SAINTS' in cracked gold letters. He snapped his fingers at the bartender and gestured to Sam and Dean's table before he and his sister took their seats opposite the Winchesters.
"Been a long time, boys," Stana began, folding her elbows on the table, a faint smile on her lips. Her biceps were in excellent shape and showed off an anti-possession ward tattoo that Dean hadn't seen when they'd originally met.
"Far, far, far too long," Dean agreed, smiling impishly.
And they proceeded to get the necessary pleasantries out of the way. Kyle asked about Stanford; Sam asked about Kyle's real estate project, which had ground to a halt two years before and taken a backseat to his hunting duties. Stana gave her condolences for John's death; Dean gave his condolences for Stana and Kyle's parents, who'd fallen prey to a demon out of the Devil's Gate a couple of years ago.
"Heard you killed that Lilith bitch," Kyle mentioned and Sam sank into his seat with shame. "Man, I don't care what kind of shit that opened up, good for you. You just did what we couldn't."
"What do you mean?" Sam pressed.
"Lilith's the one who killed our folks," Stana elaborated, going on to describe how Lilith had breezed through the South and killed all the hunters worth knowing. Kyle had tracked her for a year before she became too difficult to follow and he'd given up on killing her.
"What brings you to town," Kyle finally asked, "besides the booze and the women?"
"There a case you think we can't handle?" Stana said, sliding away Dean's whiskey to down a gulp herself.
"That's not it at all," Sam shook his head.
"It's complicated, but we're here to see a priestess, Oya Keneday," Dean told them. "What can you tell us about her?"
Stana and Kyle shared a knowing look. Stana just shook her head and returned to her drink; Kyle took a deep breath.
"Well, she ain't human," he said, "if that's what you're asking."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Sam asked. "What is she?"
"She's not an angel, a demon, a shape-shifter, a vampire, a spirit, a ghoul, a changeling or a zombie," Kyle reeled off, checking the mental list of everything he'd ever theorized her to be. "She hasn't aged a single day since I met her, I was four years old. Way mom told it, she's the one who delivered us."
"We think she's one of those pagan gods," Stana interjected, "but she never has told us straight up what she is."
"No mixing with the dark arts or anything?" Dean probed.
"Just old time voodoo religion," Kyle answered. "We think she's been in New Orleans at least since Marie LeVeau was born."
"What do you know about her tenants?" Sam asked uncertainly.
"Guess even gods have gotta eat, and she owns a lot of real estate here in the Quarter," Stana shrugged. "What are you guys here to see her for anyway?"
And thus proceeded a long, complicated explanation of how John Winchester had hidden their brother from them and he'd been resurrected by forces unseen. Sam and Dean chose to withhold the Seer and demon aspect for the time being, instead lying and saying that Oya had been recommended by Adam's girlfriend to make sure his resurrection hadn't toyed with him. The last thing anybody needed to hear was that the world was close to destruction and they were pinning their hopes on wayward demons and angels.
"So we're just basically sitting around, twiddling our thumbs," Dean concluded. "Thought about finding a case, but, uh, you can probably handle them." He shot Stana a grin at those last words.
"Dean Winchester: God's gift to hunter," she exaggerated, shaking her head. "We're fine, thanks."
"Actually…" Kyle turned to his sister and they mouthed a tense conversation that Dean and Sam couldn't make out. Kyle eventually turned to them, looking eager. "We could probably use your help on the Lalaurie job."
Sam choked a little bit on his beer and Dean had to pat him on the back until foam had stopped leaking from his mouth.
"The Lalaurie mansion?" Sam asked eagerly once he'd regained his voice. "That's the most famous haunting in this city, even Dad wanted in on that job. We're up for it, we'll help any way we can!"
"… nerd," Dean muttered.