Chapter 26

Wednesday, May 1st, 2002

The man clenched his hands harder on Dean's shirt and shoved again. The jolt of the second impact seemed instead to solidify Dean, show him exactly where his feet were, and all at once his vision cleared and the pulse of pain in his head was a distant feeling. In his focus he saw through the rainwater falling in his eyes and spent the next blink taking stock of the man.

He was of similar height to Dean himself, with short dark hair that led into a sparse beard, slick and plastered to his skin and long face in the weather. His bared teeth weren't the healthiest looking shade of yellow but what shined greatest in the gloom were the man's eyes. They were, if Dean wasn't kidding himself, glowing, an almost dizzying combination of bloodshot whites and an iridescent iris. Dean felt the slightest pulse of the man's muscles where they pinned his chest, no doubt priming himself to give third throw, but Dean was waiting for it; he knew that in this position there wasn't a push without the slight pull that came first, the goading of the muscles before they released their collected power. It was in this fraction of a second that Dean brought up his boot, planted it against the man's stomach, and gave a shove of his own. Without looking Dean felt the man's iron grip come free of his shirt, and knew he was free.

It wasn't what the attacker had expected to happen, but nonetheless he was back on his feet fast. Dean crouched, smiling feverishly, and felt the wave of fight fill his body, overtaking the cold rain, rushing over the wind. He pushed off the side of his car and sprinted at the man.

He dodged Dean's swinging right hook at the last possible moment with a step backwards, and fell to the ground in the next, Dean's follow-up swing whiffing through the air. The man pushed up from the ground. He had his open hand out towards Dean's stomach. But Dean used his momentum to make a spin to the right, and the man stumbled instead when he didn't meet his purchase. Using his shoulder, Dean rushed a second time, finally colliding with the man's back, sending him spilling to the ground.

While the man tried to pick himself up Dean welled with the small victory, rolling his neck while he made a slow approach. This wasn't the end; it always took more than one throw to the ground before he beat someone. That didn't make it feel any less satisfying, though.

A few paces away, Dean planted his feet once more, taking up a guarded stance. "Now, who the fuck - "

The man rolled to his back on the soaked ground, cutting Dean off with a pointed finger and a shout, words Dean had neither the time or understanding to decipher.

Like he were thrown into a freezing river, a fierce cold came over Dean's entire body like water, choking off not only his words but his air, of which in this strangled state his body was hungry for. He too felt held in place, like he had become a figure of ice, only able to look on while the man came to his feet, finger still pointed, and the rain fell on his skin. If he were able to move even a fraction, Dean's teeth would be shivering.

"You won't kill me too, you - monster." The man glowered at Dean over his finger, taking a wary step closer. "My friends weren't enough for you? For River?"

With each approaching footfall the picture of the man seemed to glitter through the raindrops until he was no more than a few feet away, and Dean realized it was in fact the other way around; a light, similar to what Dean had seen in the man's eyes, becoming slightly different colors with each shift of his body, coming off of the man's outreached hand like the evaporating rain off of a hot road. The flitting light bounced off the drops of rain and the slick ground, the man's wet face and clothing. The realization met Dean's bones, finding his core: this man was a witch. Beyond the cold Dean felt the tingle of an ache in his chest. He needed air.

The man met Dean's face, his shimmering finger no more than an inch away from Dean's chest, lighting them from below like they were in a horror film. Dean didn't want to think about what might happen if he touched him, what his magic might do. Pulling back was impossible.

This man seemed more than content to keep this hold on Dean for as long as he needed if his grin meant anything, alongside a new calm in his discerning eyes. He looked Dean up and down, his jaw tight, his mouth thin. When he spoke his tone may sounded patient - bored, even - but Dean heard the threat that lived inside the words themselves. "Those were my friends, you know. In Oklahoma. The ones who are dead now." His mouth flickered in and out of a scowl. Dean took that to say the witch was having a hard checking his anger. "And you thought you'd trick them and run away? It was a good thing I put the tracking charm on your car when I did. They told me not to bother but River had burned us before already. I might've had to chase you around the country but you aren't going anywhere now. Where. Is. River?"

The tickle in Dean's chest was evolving into the deep kind, beginning to pull on his stomach, asking for air. He was trapped, caged and nailed to the ground. Panic rose in his chest. His heartbeat quickened, but the irony was not lost on him - he was losing air, then panicking about it, so his heart raced, stealing more oxygen.

Apparently, the man didn't like Dean's silence. Another crack appeared in his facade, another scowl crossing his face, before he pulled back and swung a fist into Dean's gut. The rest of his air was forced out at that moment. Dean felt the impact like a whip, his freezing body unable to move and absorb the blow.

He gasped on instinct and felt the air come back into his body, filling him back to life like a used balloon. It was almost too sweet but for a second he let himself feel the relief of having his breath, sucking it in and heaving it out.

"Talk," the man spat.

At which, Dean discovered he could do so again. "They're…dead? Who…the fuck…are you?"

"Try again." The ever changing light coming off his hand changed, though Dean couldn't tell how exactly. Maybe in brightness. His breathing was finally slowing down.

"You followed us," said Dean. "I don't have a clue who you are, but I didn't kill your friends."

"Of course you didn't. It was that bitch, River. We thought they could trust her again, and here we are."

Despite the rest of his expression the man's eyes clenched each time he became angry, Dean was noticing, now that he had the brainpower for focusing. The light on his hand would change, too. Becoming a stronger red color, less of a rainbow. More of a vibrant color, if Dean had to call it anything.

Actually, if he had to call it anything, he would call it dangerous. He needed to put this mouse in its trap and fast. Needed to break out of this ice that was beginning to fight its way back inside.

"Listen," said Dean, "I had nothing to do with that charm, and where River is, your guess is as good as mine. Can't you do some fucking spell to find that out for yourself? Or do you just prefer fighting strangers in the street?"

The light on the witch's hand flickered in and out of red for a moment as he spoke. "If I could find her on my own, I would. But you're in the middle of this, whether you like it or not. My friends are dead because of the spell that you delivered, Winchester."

Dean's eyes widened slightly. The man smirked. "You're famous, kid. Or, your father is, at least. Nothing but a fucking hunter, killing whoever you like. But witches are convenient when you need something from them."

"Listen, River double-crossed me, too. I was just the delivery boy, to pay her back for a charm of my own. But it was bullshit. Didn't protect me or…" My brother, nearly slipped from his mouth. He wouldn't give the universe any more chances to put Sam in danger. He'd done that enough. "Anything," he finished. "We're after the same person, you have to trust me. Let me go and we can find her. We can make her pay."

Dean, for all of the anger he felt towards River, knew he and this man had different ideas of how they wanted to make her pay. Killing River wasn't going to make any of this any better, Dean believed. At the most, he only wanted to make living…inconvenient, for River. But this man was out for something different. The wind blew; the rain fell; the witch's eyes narrowed on Dean's after a moment, considering.

"You have no charm with you," he said after a moment. "You're lying."

"Oh trust me, I wish I were lying. Whatever River did to this charm, I can't get rid of it. It's nothing but shit luck."

"No, there's nothing here. I would feel it." His pointed finger began shaking in the air, and in a second the light vapor shifted color till Dean could hardly see it in the gray world around them. Dean would have shivered at the changing face of the witch. When next the man spoke his voice held a hint of mirth. "River is a dangerous witch. She must be put down. All she needs - " He reached a dripping finger to Dean's head, passed his vision. When his hand came back he held a single one of Dean's hair. In the encroaching ice over his body he didn't feel it being plucked. "Is a strand of hair and you're hers. So, I'll kill you, then your brother, and then I'll find River myself. Before she happens to anyone else."

Dean sparred a fraction of a second, contemplating if he'd heard this man right; but only a fraction of a second. Every captive muscle in his body jumped into action. The blood in his veins sped through his heart, and he knew if he could have burst into crazy magic vapor in that moment too, evaporate every raindrop on his body, join the wind in a race, he would have. He may not have had magic on these terms but he had intent, and that was already three-quarters of the ingredients. Dean snapped his head forward with all he had. He met the witch's face with his brow. He felt his own power push out the tendrils of ice across his skin all at once, bursting out of the witch's cage.

The witch flew backwards through the air for a second time. Dean wouldn't allow him back on his feet. He fisted the man's shirt and met him on the ground, straddling him, pinning him against the wet ground. It no longer mattered where they were, or what they were saying; everything was wet and everything was raining, the wind would carry everything away. Nonetheless, this son of a bitch would never lay a finger on his brother.

"Stay - "

Crack.

"Away - "

Crack.

"From - "

Crack.

"Sam - "

Dean let loose a final swing. The witch's head fell limp to the side, blood escaping in a trickle from his nose to meet the rain on the ground, disappearing. He sat for a moment, gulping the air while yet the fire still burned in his chest, though after a moment the cool rain became a welcome feeling as it shifted him back into focus, where he could have a thought other than putting this bastard in the ground. He would never touch Sam. But Dean wasn't a killer. By the time the witch woke up, Dean promised, he and Sam would be long gone, and without his damned tracking charm he would never find them again. Dean came back to his feet, resolute, and walked back to his car where it sat still running on the curb, the witch's own vehicle a few feet behind in the middle of the road. Dean's bumper was dented, but there was no smoke. It would drive them away from this place. Dean pressed the gas and sped down the street with renewed purpose.

—

The rain hadn't let up as time passed, hitting Mason's body in a sickening, inconsistent rhythm, filling the recesses of his eyes till it spilled down his cheeks. His chest, which had at first been a slow metronome of rising and falling, hadn't filled with new air, his body succumbing to the well-placed attacks on his head. And while his brain would remain alive for a few moments, granted, as time passed it would begin to slowly asphyxiate. The storm would eventually reach its head and blow him away, like any kind of broken tree limb or stray lawn furniture.

Though, it wouldn't get the chance.

The small flame began as a small spark but fed itself on the fibers of his clothing drenched though they were, and in a moment the flame burned through Mason's chest pocket till it ate into the heart of the spell nestled there. The magic's conditions had been met. The core of the spell caught like a gas tank, spitting sparks like a firecracker. Mason's cold eyes flew open. He sat up in a rush, gasping, sucking in the cold, wet air. In the next moment he was retching, his body desperate to eject the waste. The second half of his spell came up from his stomach and out of his mouth, the small satchel, no larger than a pebble, but just as black. The singed carbon was being erased by the rain, fading off in a black trail as it ran over the asphalt. The red edges of his burning coat died out. He fell back on the road and reached a shaking hand to his pocket, discarding those remains inside as well.

He'd come to do a job - find the reason why his friends had to die so horribly. He stared at the blackening clouds for a moment catching his air, before bringing his other hand up, blotting out the sky. In his pinched fingers was a strand of dark hair, the white nub of the follicle still hanging on at the end.

And he was going to do it.