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Crows in the wheatfield

Chapter 14

"What do I know about crows?" Sam asked, voice incredulous.

Dean dropped his head into his hands, pressing his knuckles to the bridge of his nose.

"Yeah, crows. Them big, black birds. Edgar Allen Poe wrote a poem about one…"

Dean tried to keep his voice light, feeling incredibly safer treading on familiar territory with his little brother, the teasing and bantering like a step back in time, almost.

"Edgar Allen Poe…that's pretty dark stuff. Didn't know you'd ever read his work. 'sides, the poem's actually called 'the raven'."

"Crow – Raven. Same difference. And, I do read, you know. On occasion…if it can't be avoided. Besides, Poe was one of the first writers of mystery, right? So, it really is work-related - research, almost…"

Sam grumbled something under his breath, something along the lines of didn't know they've made a movie out of that one, but kept quiet otherwise. It made Dean smile a little. He still was able to surprise his little brother, after all these years...

"You want a biology lesson on birds in general, or have you got anything in particular in mind?" Sam finally asked.

Dean pulled the newspaper closer, started drawing doodles along the paper's edges.

"Uhm…yeah. I was thinking more in terms of…mythology. Like what kind of lore surrounds them – that kind of thing."

"Any particular incident I should know about?" Sam asked, altogether too calm, too composed…too suspicious and Dean knew he was dangerously close to being busted. If he wasn't already. Sam knew it had something to do with him, sure, because Sam always knew when Dean was trying to con him or dad.

"I got wind of this case…a friend of a friend… Long story, but…I remember you doing that paper on mythology of crows and ravens, once, remember? You were around 16 – had me drive you all the way across the country so you could talk to that native American…shaman or whatever the hell he was. Dad got so pissed 'cause he came back home Saturday morning and we were gone… Anyways – you did that paper and you got an A on it, if I remember correctly, so I thought maybe you could refresh my memory a little…"

Dean shifted on the hard chair, biting down on his bottom lip as a dull shiver ran up his leg, reminding him painfully that it would be time for his meds again soon. But first things first…

"So you're not going to tell me the whole story?" Sam asked, tone of his voice clearly suggesting that he didn't believe the friend of a friend of a friend scheme Dean had so smartly come up with.

"As I said – long story."

"And it has nothing at all to do with you or dad…?"

"Nope - nothing whatsoever. Just a friend…"

"…of a friend, yeah. I got that."

"Right."

Sam waited a beat, no doubt deciding if and how to call his bluff, giving Dean the tiny window to turn himself in, but after a couple of seconds of silence Dean relaxed again, sensing that the immediate threat was over.

"Alright…so…it's been a while, but I think I still got some of it memorized…"

Dean heard Sam shift again, imagined how he sat up, leaning forward, his back slightly hunched but face set, all business. His thinker's mode – formerly known as research-mode. It was engraved like a picture in Dean's mind.

"In modern legends and myths crows or ravens are depicted as some kind of…harbingers of doom, or death. Most people see them as dark and dangerous…mystical creatures. That's because of their dark coloring, of course – black animals are used to represent the devil, or evil in general in old and modern literature as well as movies, too. Black horses for the villain in western movies - or, take black cats, for example – those are supposed to bring bad luck…"

Yeah – or, say…black dogs. Totally unfounded belief. Because they really were just poor, cuddly, misunderstood little puppies that just happened to like to chew on human legs for a snack… Live and let live…

"Also, crows are carrion eaters, so in times of war they were often seen circling above battlefields, waiting to feast on the dead – or, more recently, they flock at graveyards, or near slaughterhouses, waiting to pick on the remains."

Carrion eaters – picking at eyes…

A cold shiver ran up Dean's spine. But the crow had never threatened him...had it?

"I remember something about their calls…some resemblance to words…" Dean offered, just to say something, to contribute and not make Sam feel like he was doing an actual lecture. Because Dean did remember some of those things, but he'd always done so much better when being able to discuss things with someone, preferably his brother. He'd always been one that needed to talk things through in order to be able to grasp them in their entirety.

"Yeah…what was that again... I think the crowing was attributed to the Latin word for Tomorrow. So, if they are calling cra cra it supposedly sounds like cras cras – cras being the Latin word for tomorrow, which the superstitious of course, once again due to the usual crowding of the animals at battlefields or graveyards saw as an omen of death."

Dean's fingers involuntarily flexed around the pen in his hand, almost snapping it in two.

"So, they're…portents - omens of death?" he asked, trying to sound casual despite the rough edge that had crept into his voice.

"Well…that's only the myth, of course. Mainly, they are seen as creepy, uncanny animals. But, there are plenty of myths depicting crows as good omens, too. In some Native American tribes they are believed to be very holy, very wise birds – are called upon by shamans to clarify visions that a human alone cannot interpret. They believe them to be spiritual guides who issue warnings to the living, who can assist in determining answers to hidden thoughts. They can see beyond what is visible to the human eye, see the past, the presence and the future."

Sam was in full-on lecture mode now, getting into the subject, logging into geek-mode as effortlessly as other's went to sleep. The tone of his voice changed, when he did that, the cadence, too. There was a familiar beat to his talking now, a rhythm that Dean easily fell into, almost losing himself in it.

Dean ran a hand over his face, down his chin, trying to take it all in.

"So, what you are saying is, that they are seers or prophets, kind of, like psychics?"

"I wouldn't say psychic…but visionary, maybe. Like…spirit animals, you know? They see things that are already there, but we can't make out, somehow. Like, danger that is about to be upon us, is already in the making, so to speak but hasn't happened yet."

"Like, supernatural guardian angels?"

"You could put it that way."

Dean was quiet for a second, his mind wandering, trying to make sense of it all. OK, so the bird had seen the impending doom that had been about to struck Dean back in that field, when he'd been mauled half to death by the black dog. Which wasn't all that visionary, really, wouldn't have been too hard to figure out considering how he'd been pretty much bleeding out and all…

But it had kept him awake and alert, had kept him from wandering off, thus making it impossible for his dad to find him. Granting, of course, that it hadn't all been feverish delusions. And there was no way of proving that to be the truth. Besides the dreams, of course, but those, again, could be nothing but dreams…

Dean had never really believed in gut-feeling, had clung to the set rules and regulations that came with being John Winchesters son. Sam had always been the emotional one, the one hunting with his heart instead of his hands, as dad had so accurately put it once.

So, where did this goddamn gut-feeling that felt more like a full blown ulcer by now, coming from all of a sudden?

Dad, dead…lying in a pool of blood…

"Do you believe it? You believe they are messengers of the future instead of doom?" Dean asked quickly, banning the unwelcome pictures from his mind while absentmindedly drawing the rough outlines of a bird remotely resembling a crow on his sheet of paper, pen etching circle after circle around the animal's eye.

Sometime during the conversation he'd unconsciously turned the newspaper back over again, the image of the crow drawn right next to the picture of the herb-lady.

"Well…"

Sam's voice was momentarily rippled by static, and Dean tensed, fearing he would lose his brother, but a second later he was there again, loud and strong…as if he'd never left.

"Well, I guess I do. They are fascinating animals, smart and intelligent. I think that there's more to them than people ever give them credit for. They are judged too harshly by their looks, their history…"

Yeah – only that every superstition, every lore had an origin somewhere – and more often than not there was a shred of truth at least to every seemingly unfounded suspicion. In their line of work they'd come to realize that often enough. But Sam had always believed in the good – first and foremost – in both people and everything supernatural. It was a sentiment that Dean had cherished more than he'd ever been able to express, ever been allowed to express. Someone in their little family had to be the one keeping them all grounded…

"But…if that's all true – the good guardian stuff, I mean…what would make them share that information…what makes them…offer their sight or whatever the hell you wanna call it, to a human? Alright, if I'm a shaman and ask it for its help, I guess they'll get offerings and such…but…would it offer its knowledge voluntarily? Free of charge? And how does it pick whoever it decides to share its wisdom with?"

"I wouldn't know. Native Americans go on those vision quest…search for their spirit animal to guide and protect them. I'd say…maybe they just pick someone, choose a human to latch onto, someone in need, maybe, someone who'd be lost without them."

Like hell would Dean have been lost without the damn bird. He'd have found a way…

"Listen, Dean, I'm not really all that familiar with the subject anymore, if you need more than that I'd have to look it up again… All I know is that they are said to be messengers of change, of transformation. They guide people that are lost, help them find their way, trying to steer them away from danger and back onto the right path. I have no clue as to their motive. I'm not sure there is one, even. There doesn't always have to be a reason…"

Dean didn't know what to say to that.

He certainly hadn't been lost, just a little disoriented, off the track, maybe, but merely steps away from the laid path. Maybe he still was, but it wasn't something to get worried about. So why the hell would the bird chose him, of all people?

"I'm no expert, though, Dean, so if you need anything else…maybe you should talk to someone else. Try Bobby, maybe. I'm sure he has about a dozen books on the subject, could fill in the blank spots."

Dean shook his head, remembering too late that Sam wouldn't be able to see.

"No…not, it's alright. You already helped a lot. I mean…this might have nothing to do with m… with the case I'm working on, I just wanted to make sure I've got all bases covered."

The beat of a pause…

"You don't think you're dealing with a spirit crow, then?" Sam asked, his voice slightly more suspicious again, now that he'd once again been drawn out of his lecturing mode.

"Nah…that does sound a little too fictional, you know? I mean, a bird warning people of death, protecting them…I don't believe in the goodness of the heart, Sam, you know that. Not even in animals. There's got to be a catch, somewhere."

Now that he had all the information he'd been looking for, Dean suddenly felt bone tired again. His body, tensed for the past hour or so at once slacking again, reminding him brutally of his still too apparent weakness. He really needed to end this conversation soon, before he said anything that gave him away…any more than he already had.

"You'd have an easier time believing crows to be the companions of death itself, to track down those who'd die next and make sure that they wouldn't escape their doom, rather than believing they would want to protect and guide a lost soul?" Sam asked, a strange sadness in his voice that had Dean bristle and cringe inside.

Truth was, yeah – he had less trouble believing in the bad than in the good. And who could blame him, having seen what he'd seen, knowing what he knew…

Dean just wasn't ready for this.

He wasn't ready to admit to the fact that the whole hunt gone wrong had shaken him, had shaken a lot of things he'd thought he believed in. And he certainly wasn't ready to admit that a damn crow had saved his ass, maybe, was now trying to warn him to another catastrophe about to be upon him - them. If it was indeed true.

He wasn't ready to admit that a crow should be his spirit animal. If there was such a thing as spirit animals, his would be a bear, or a wolf, even, or a panther or leopard or something similarly fierce and dangerous. Something big and impressive and frightening. Certainly not a bird. A pretty damn cool bird, all black and mystical and smart, maybe – but a bird nonetheless.

And, if it had to be a bird, it would be an eagle, to be sure, not a damn crow.

Not a crow.

Besides, there was still no proof out on the dream he'd had – so there was nothing to use for strengthening the evidence. He'd have to look into it further, make sure he got it all worked out. He still had time for that.

Dean hadn't called Sam because he believed that there was something to the whole dream-business… only wanted to gather some information, maybe using it a little as an excuse to simply talk to his brother again. Didn't mean he gave a rat's ass about anything he'd just found out.

Nothing to get excited about.

Just covering all bases, like dad had taught him.

Dean realized that neither of them had said anything in a while. Suddenly, the silence between them was heavy again, the tension once again palpable. It hadn't been like that between them, ever before. Not even during those last months, when Sam had been so hard to reach already, his mind no longer with his family.

"Dean, you'd tell me if you were in trouble, right?" Sam suddenly asked, carefully, worry tinging his voice.

Dean shook himself, trying to pull up at least part of that wall again – the wall that had been knocked down and had been left rotting on the ground for far too long now.

"There's nothing to worry about, Sam. I'm fine – we're fine. Always will be."

He was surprised himself at the hardened determination he detected in his own voice again. Sam heard it too, no doubt – and the kid, at least, had learned when he'd been beaten at his own game of stubbornness. The sigh sounding over the line was barely audible, and somehow it didn't serve to make Dean believe he was the winner in this game, all of a sudden.

"You sound…different." Sam said, stubborn tinge to his voice, like he knew he was overstepping the border, but trying to appear as if he didn't care.

Face to face, Dean would have flashed his little brother a smile, contradicting the obvious lies that were spilling out of his mouth – covering up the all too apparent sight of his injuries screaming out how far from alright he really was – they really were. Face to face, Sam would have scowled and frowned and looked all suffering and teary, chin jutted out and crease in between his brows a mile deep by now.

Face to face…

But they were separated by hundreds of miles – separated by more than just distance by now, maybe.

"Where are you right now? Maybe you could come by, pay me a visit? I've just moved into a new apartment…" Sam said quietly.

The offer took Dean by surprise a little. Which might explain why he did what he did – namely, offering his brother the truth.

"Uhm…you remember that house we used to stay in a couple times when you were little? The one with the tree-house and the swing set and the bunk-beds?"

Sam thought about that for a moment.

"Yeah, I think I actually do remember. It was some kind of safe-house, right? Belonged to some hunter. We stayed there whenever we needed a place to lay low for a while..."

"That's the place."

"What are you doing there?" Sam asked, and this time the suspicion was not even close to being concealed anymore.

"What…?"

"We haven't been there for years."

"Yeah, so what? We ran low on funds, needed a place to stay for a while…"

Dean realized too late that that had been the wrong thing to say.

"Why? What's wrong, Dean?"

Oh Jesus.

"Nothing's wrong, Sam. Just another place to crash for a while, that's all. Just until we found ourselves another hunt to take care of."

"You're lying."

It was said matter-of-factly. Like there was absolutely no doubt in Sam's mind.

"Jesus, Sam. What's wrong with you? We can't crash someplace without you suspecting a conspiracy behind it?"

"Well, maybe you're just as good at lying to me as dad is at playing poker." Sam challenged.

"Just let this go, Sam. I'm telling you, there's nothing wrong. I'm fine…great. I'm just catching on some rest between hunts."

Here they were again, the happiness at hearing his brother's voice, talking to him like before – when they'd still been hunting together, tossing ideas back and forth…all of that shattered because of the damn secrets they were forced to keep from each other… Because Dean didn't want to pull Sam back into his old life…not unless Sam made that decision himself.

He didn't want this to happen because of something that could be held against him, Dean, in the long run. He didn't think he'd be able to live with himself if he did. And telling Sam what had happened…it could mean this would happen. Could mean that Sam would pack his things and come, because even though he'd left seemingly without looking back, he'd really always left a bridge open, a way to cross back over in keeping in contact with his older brother.

All bad feelings aside, all thoughts of abandonment considered, Dean knew that, if somehow his life was at stake, Sam would come back. They still were brothers after all.

"Dean, I swear…if I find out you're lying to me… You wouldn't lie to me about this, right? Not if you really were in trouble…right?"

Dean felt himself falter, felt the defenses shaking badly at Sam's question. He wanted so badly to tell him…

Despite everything Sam apparently thought, Dean had never been able to lie to his little brother. He'd just gotten pretty damn good at bending the truth.

Even though it was exceptionally harder to keep up that front now.

"I'm talking to you right now, Sammy, aren't I? How bad could it possibly be if I'm still talking to you?"

His body chose exactly this moment to show Dean how bad it actually was, proving him wrong as another dull throb shot through his leg. Dean jerked to sit up a little straighter, his hand automatically reaching down to clamp hard fingers into the flesh atop his left knee as if he was physically able to keep the pain at bay that way, to keep it from crawling all the way up into his hip, taking over the rest of his body.

More than three weeks now, and still he couldn't go any longer period of time without his meds cushioning the worst of the pain. He tried skipping every other dose now and always started to regret his decision shortly after…

He'd almost forgotten that he'd still had the phone gripped in his hand, flinching when Sam cleared his throat all of a sudden. Dean barely bit back on a groan of discomfort as the jerking of muscles sent small tremors of pain down his shoulder and side, settling in a molten lump in the cut of his hip.

He really had to end this now, get up and moving while he still could, get those meds down before his body locked up on him completely.

"Listen…" they both said at the same time, both falling silent again when they realized the incident.

"You first." Dean said quickly, beating Sam to it by a second only.

It was almost noon already. Dad would be back soon, and Dean really wanted to be off the phone by then…

Sam grumbled something that Dean didn't understand.

"What was that? Didn't hear you." Dean prodded softly, a tiny smile on his lips despite the slowly rising nausea that accompanied his body's withdrawal.

"I said, I have to get going soon."

"Got a date?"

"Why, you jealous?"

"Not really, having seen some of the girls you've managed to pay for going out with you."

"Like hell…" Sam grumbled, and Dean couldn't help the painful smile that accompanied the feeling of familiarity their light banter once again awakened.

"Got classes. Have a couple of tests coming up, a paper to write." Sam finally offered, the explanation sounding like an excuse, almost.

"Yeah, alright." There was nothing more Dean could say to that. Already the loss of contact weighed down on his shoulders heavily, adding to the lump of pain that had settled there.

"So…I guess we'll talk…" Sam offered, and Dean drew some sick comfort in the thought that Sam sounded just as reluctant to hang up as he himself did.

"Sure, sure. I'll give you a call." Dean offered, forcing his mind to blank out once again. He'd never done good with good-byes…

"Yeah. Maybe you might work on not losing your phone again, dude. I can't believe dad didn't rip you a new one for that stunt, man. He's certainly been all over my case whenever I simply left it in another room and didn't get there in time to pick it up… And you might wanna consider checking your messages every once in a while, too. I was beginning to worry something might have happened to you…"

The seemingly unguarded comment had Dean frowning, fighting to stay alert through the low but frighteningly insistent haze of pain creeping up his body, settling like a giant tumor in the back of his head.

"What are you talking about? I never lose my phone, Sam. And you know I check my messages every day."

He pushed himself up from the chair, his good arm braced against the table to keep his body from overbalancing, shuffling to the side until he got a grip on his crutches. It was awkward, clutching the phone between shoulder and ear in order to be able to walk like this. But he really needed to get something to drink, needed to get his meds ready. He'd been holding back for a little too long I order to not give Sam a clue to the fact that he was hurt. Dean knew the meds made him a little woozy…made him careless sometimes. He'd been afraid he'd say something, let something slip that he had no intention of revealing to his little brother.

He'd made it to the counter, precariously balancing his weight on his good leg while filling a glad with tepid smelling tab-water, detecting the telltale tremor in his fingers, the sheen of sweat that covered the back of his hands even.

More than three weeks, goddamnit. How could he be so goddamn weak still…?

He was drawn back to the conversation at the sound of Sam's voice, once again jerking as he'd been apparently drifting off a little.

"What…what did you just say?" Dean asked, his own voice sounding hollow and far away even to his own ears.

"I said, dad told me you'd lost it – your phone - and that he had to go get it for you… I left you half a dozen messages after, but you never got back to me…"

Dean stopped in mid-movement, hand braced against the countertop, brows drawing together in confusion.

"When did… Sam, when did you talk to dad?"

OoOoOoO

AN:

This has been an insane week - at least the first part of it - volcanoes in Iceland and all that - which is good for business, apparently, but not so good to grant some spare time. but hey - writing is such a great stress-reliever, gives you the chance to just block out some of the stress of the day and settle back down again. So, thank you all for giving me reason to vent here. It's certainly a healthier way than eating chocolate (which I had every intention of doing, but then conscience warned me... so I baked those brownies for my colleagues only - I'm a very popular person in my office right now, I can tell you ;-)

I got to repeat myself and say - again - that I can't believe the responses this story is getting, and I'm doing my best to not dissapoint you guys. Those wonderful reviews and PMs sure feed my muse a lot, and I mean a lot. So, I'm off to writing again, before Mount Doom decides to spill it's ashes all over europe again... ;-)

thanks so much for reading and don't fear to review - feed my muse some more. you're awesome!

take care!