This is for the theme VooDoo

I am really uncertain about posting this, it is really dark and has highly mature themes, nothing to explicit but it is there if you don't blink. I contemplated posting it as its own separate fic, but for prosperities sake I put it in here. Another warning is that this is not linear at all, only at the beginning and end, it works better this way.

I really do want feedback people, I know you are reading it, I would like some reviews! Not to sound all whiny and everything but the reviews really do help a lot.

Candles Shade the Moon

It was nights like these when the moon rode high in the velvet sky, a clear and bright orb, and the crickets chirped their tiny symphony in the grass that Dean could almost remember what happened.

It was the worst pain Dean had ever experienced. Jabbing needles pushed deep into his limbs pinning not only his physical form but his spirit like a fly to the table.

She wanted him, ever since he stepped into town; she knew she had to have him. He would be perfect for her collection. She would be his lagniappe, something she got for working so hard. She didn't know that he was here to try and exorcise her.

They overpowered him in the swamps. All of the reports greatly underestimated the amount of zombies she controlled.

Looming over him, leaning over his face, Dean could smell her, a sultry mix of ginger and herbs, dirt, sweat and something altogether unpleasant. She kissed his brow like a mother with her child. "I'm doing this because I love you. I want to keep you forever, forever beautiful my love." She ran a hand over his brow in a soothing gesture, trying to rub away the fright and anger lines, knowing that the boy wouldn't be able to respond. "It may hurt now I know, but soon the pain will go away. All the pain. What lover could guarantee you that?"

The candlelight flickers, Dean isn't aware of where he is, let alone the time.

He was waiting for her, a descendant of the White Witch, trying to continue in her great-great grandmother's footsteps. She thought she could rule, but she hadn't met Dean Winchester.

Yellow orange powder, sprinkled onto his face, effectively obscured his vision of the small room and her, she who danced around giggling like a child for her new toy.

The candles flickered again in some unseen draft. She said there was no escape from this room, but a draft meant there were holes, possibly ones large enough to escape through. If only he could get off the table.

She worked hard to gain this much control. Finding new servants for herself as well as bringing those of her ancestor back under control. It took a lot of sacrifice, a lot of spilt blood. The boy dared threaten it all, ignoring the unspoken fear she held over her bayou. It had taken years to get the White Witch legacy once again whispered in the streets of the Crescent City. She wasn't going to let it all go that easy.

Dean hadn't hesitated, dropping each slave that attacked. He wasn't sure if some of these people were alive still and that made him sloppy. He wasn't trying to kill them. Ultimately, Dean was brought down by the White Witch's Children's Crusade. Twelve of them, none more than 15 in age, swarmed him, beating him into unconsciousness. That was something Dean could never do, strike a child.

The doll lay on a smaller table, pinned down with long, silver nails. They glowed in the faint candlelight. Shadows casting about the small figure like tiny fingers. The pain stopped.

It was his mouth that always got him in trouble, it would never stay closed when it should. She took care of that.

Running. He was running through the swamp. Knowing it was dangerous to do so had taken a back seat to the feelings of escape.

He was surprised when he awoke that she hadn't already performed the ritual that would bind him to her forever, but she wanted him to watch.

Every stitch through the face of the doll sent waves of agony through Dean. The pins in its arms prevented Dean from even clutching at his face. Every fiber of the course thread rubbed burns as it wound its way into the penetrated flesh of his lips sealing them together with invisible string. Each time the curved needle pushed its way through the fabric of the doll a phantom seamstress mirrored the move on Dean. The tender skin of his lips split for the stitches, filling his mouth with blood from wounds that would not show themselves.

The beautiful skin of the boy glimmered in her candlelight. She traced designs on his bare flesh no one knew but her, each one binding him closer to her. Stealing his ti bon ange. He would be special, this one, more than just a dog to serve his mistress's purpose, but a pet to serve her need. She couldn't wait until those green orbs stared at her with the vacant adoration she deserved.

He spent days spying on her, as she spied on him.

The powders blended so perfectly with the freckled skin, sliding down the smooth slopes and plains until it came to rest in the low places, like the navel. She traced her fingers through the dust; lightly following the curve of Dean's straining musculature before swirling into the runes.

It amused her that he still struggled to escape. She took him then before all the fight was gone from those green orbs. "I will be the owner of this heart, this soul. You're mine."

Pain seemed to be his world now; pain and a creeping numbness spreading from his heart with every beat. She was everywhere. She was simultaneously on top of him and next to him, underneath and above him, swaying backwards and forwards while staying perfectly still. She was inside of him and had become his world.

The candlelight shimmered, painting the two in gold and black.

She came around the corner to face a gun. Her puppet had cut its strings.

He didn't realize coming out of the trance until he had her gris-gris bag in his hand. It felt slimy to him, and alive. He could feel the hearts of the countless numbers she had enslaved and kept for her luck.

He left her sobbing on the floor, taking all her magic, leaving her alone and empty. Dean wouldn't kill her, part of him was tied to tightly for that, but he could leave her alone.

It wasn't until later that Dean found he had been missing for the better part of two weeks. No one knew he was missing, Dean wasn't sure if anyone would ever have known, he was on his own now.

For many nights Dean could not stand to sleep, fearing that his mistress would come for him. Dean haunted the city, not quite able to bring himself to leave; it frightened him that the bokor got him that far under her spell. He could feel her, just out of sight, behind every corner he thought he might stumble into her and that would be the end of him. Part of him, a large part, didn't mind the idea.

He kept her gris-gris with him, until he finally decided to leave New Orleans, burning it just outside the state line. He hoped that it set the zombies free, that by burning it he would be set free.

Dean couldn't be so lucky. On nights when the moon rode high, he remembered, vague, half formed images of what went on in those two weeks. He heard her call on those nights, pleading with him to come back to her. Be owned by someone who would never let him go, never abandon him.

These were things he would never tell Sam, they were his secrets. If Sam suspected something on those nights that Dean couldn't sleep and spent the time until dawn lying in bed, sometimes whimpering or moaning, he never said anything.

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