AN: This…didn't come easily. It's…well…it's there. I've got something out for today. That's all I have to say about that!
The prompt options for today are: Blackmail / Dirty Secret / Wrongfully Accused. It takes place shortly after Gadreel possesses Sam.
Jenjoremy: I love Bobby too! Glad you enjoyed the goofiness…it was fun to mess with the three of them.
Stormysea-breaks: I'm so glad you liked chapter 5! I remember – you're a JW fan. Thank you so much for your kind comments!
Lena: Don't ever worry about criticisms – as usual, you are absolutely right. Sam would not have shot a person at this point in his life. Also, I'll have to go back and look for my oopses, but not tonight any more, since it's past my bedtime. You got me thinking about water and the show now! I've noticed that the boys often have their deep discussions on or near a bridge or looking over water. But the cruise ship idea…has so much potential. Hmmm…
The Feilcher toyed with the tarot card he was holding. Tarot cards often absorbed the magic of their owners over time, but his deck was different. It contained all of the magic of its previous owner, and probably part of her spirit too. That meant that he always paid attention to the messages they brought.
He'd started off life purely human, but had perpetrated thousands of deals with supernaturals; trading for information, a longer life, skills, abilities, artifacts. His deals had kept him alive for nearly 300 years and counting, but he'd lived in semiretirement for the last 50, tired of it all.
He looked at the liver-spotted hand still holding the card. No more. He was going to make another deal, get back in the game, get a younger body. But it had to be something big. So, he'd consulted the cards, drawing just one. They had power beyond prediction; they had the power to create change. The minute he'd picked them up, his quiet life had been over.
The card he drew was Death.
Most people would take that as a bad sign, but he knew better. This card meant change, a big change. His depiction showed a skeleton holding an implement more like an axe than a scythe. Whether the change coming was good or bad balanced on the edge of that axe. If he grabbed at the opportunity that came his way, he would get everything he wanted, or he'd be destroyed.
The Feilcher smiled. And when his aide scuttled in to tell him that there were hunters in town, he was ready. Game on.
WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER
Dean stepped out of the car and walked back toward the trunk to grab the laundry. He heard a grunt from Sam that had him drawing his weapon and…then what?
He opened pained eyes to find himself sitting in large, overly ornate room. The chair he was in was upholstered in red velvet, for fuck's sake. He wasn't bound in any way that he could see, but he couldn't move anything but his head.
So he craned his neck to look around his prison. Pansy-ass coffee and end tables, elaborate marble fire place, ridiculously thick carpet…there was even a tea tray with those cups that looked like they'd break if you touched them. What Dean did not see bothered him the most. He didn't see his brother.
A door nearly camouflaged by the gold scrollwork on the ivory walls opened silently and a little old man shuffled through. He was bent with age, but his eyes were bright and shrewd. "This is the nicest laundromat I've ever seen," joked Dean as his host took a seat. "I supposed you got that fancy detergent, huh? The kind that smells like rain or the ocean or some shit like that?"
A Stepford blonde came in from a different direction and poured the man some tea. "Dean Winchester," croaked the old guy. "I am Feilcher. I am a trader. Now, normally, I would offer hunters like you to a friend of mine by the name of Crowley, but nobody seems to know where he is at the moment." He frowned, his wrinkles gaining even more wrinkles from the motion. He didn't like not knowing something.
Dean smirked. He knew exactly where Crowley was. "That's too bad. Just let us go, and you can drink your tea in your ugly room with your girl here, who I am sure loves you for your personality. Now, where is Sam?"
"It's interesting that you mention your brother," responded the old man. "He's the one I want to talk about. You see, my witches registered that his life force was far weaker than yours. Katherine here went so far as to say she suspected that he was dying. But once we captured you, another employee of mine said he contained great power. In fact, he seemed…scared. And in all the time I've known him, I've never seen him scared before. He's a redcap. They're disgusting, stupid, excellent at scenting anything supernatural, and never scared of anything, ever. That's when I started to wonder exactly what your brother is hiding." He smiled, an avaricious expression. "Since we would all feel more comfortable knowing the details of his situation before he wakes up, I thought I'd talk to you."
"If you hurt Sam – "
"He's perfectly healthy. A few of Katherine's coven mates are keeping a spell active to ensure he stays unconscious. And I wouldn't dream of trying to hurt him. I think he could bring me a whole lot of money."
Dean's face didn't show any of the fear and, yes, guilt he felt right now. Yeah, he knew what this guy's pet redcap was sensing, though even Sam himself wouldn't know. "Okay, well, I'm not sure what pinkie thinks he's smelling on Sam, but he's my brother, just as human as I am. But I'm happy to sit here and tell you anything else you wanna know about the kid. Favorite color, first song on his Ipod, hell, I could tell you who his first kiss was."
"Look, Dean, I've been an information broker for longer than this country has been in existence. I am very, very good at getting people to tell me what I want to know. I don't need anything but information from you. You're just a human hunter. Tell me what I want and you're free to go." He finished his cup and waved off another. "Brandy?" he asked Dean.
"Why the hell not? As for what you want to know, your information just a tiny bit off." Dean found his right arm was free and accepted a weird, squat wineglass of amber liquid. Snifter, supplied the part of his brain that held onto odd facts. "Sam is my brother. We live together. We work together. If he had some kind of weird, I don't know, ability, I would know about it." He took a sip of the drink and looked at the glass in surprised appreciation. That was some good shit.
"I think you do know about it," Feilcher persisted. "And the little spell embedded in the ridiculously expensive brandy will make sure you tell the truth. So now, while we're still being nice, tell me about Sam."
Dean took another drink of the brandy because it was really good and because if the guy wasn't lying, the spell had taken hold already. Katherine looked amused, so Dean winked at her. He wasn't actually too worried about the spell, since he was raised by a human lie detector who was far scarier than these two. He is fully capable of saying a lot of truth without giving away anything he didn't want to. "Okay, he's my true brother, we share both parents, so I have no idea why he's so freaky, but I am sure that he's just a regular old human. He has a ridiculously big brain and he's way too tall, so maybe your weird-o-meter sensed one of those things." Dean shrugged with his one free arm. "What else do you want to know? His favorite color is blue, he thinks salad counts as actual food, and when he was three, he asked for a pet chicken."
Fielcher frowned and Katherine looked at Dean like he was a puzzle to solve. "I have a compound I can use, but I really don't want to waste it on you," admitted the man. "Also, if we use too much of it, your brain will melt. An unfortunate side effect." He looked at his glass as if it held the secrets he wanted. "Dean, I will learn what I want. Sam is mine now. You need to think about yourself."
Dean leveled a flat look at the man. "I haven't lied to you yet. And fun fact? You're not doing anything to Sam. You're going to let us both out of here, or I'm going to kill you. What does your truth spell say about that?"
Things got a bit more interesting after that. Fielcher invited in a no-neck thug whose job was to hit Dean every time he gave an answer the old man didn't like. Didn't matter much. Dean could take this kind of punishment for a long, long time. They didn't ask the right questions, so Dean never had to actually lie at all. What is Sam? Human.
He lost count of how many times he'd been hit, but he was seeing double by the time they gave up. His answers had gotten snarkier as they'd gone on. Did he ever see Sam perform any magic? Well, he somehow convinced a couple of chicks to have sex with him. Did Sam exhibit signs that he wasn't human when he was a child? He could puke farther than seemed humanly possible. Too bad there's no Olympic puking event, cuz he could have gotten gold. Did Sam seem extraordinarily lucky? The last question prompted nothing but a lot of laughter from Dean. A lot. And that prompted more punching.
After enough blows, Dean was only half aware for a while, but he noticed when there was kind of commotion. He didn't pick his head up or give any indication that he was awake, but listened the best he could through the vague ringing in his ears.
"…stay under…need more witches…something powerful." He thought, assumed, hoped they were talking about Sam, and Zeke was being helpful. But he couldn't count on it. The angel had told him repeatedly that he was weak and injured. Dean just had to figure out a way to get free. Despite his struggle to stay aware, he must have lost some time, because the next time he opened his eyes, Katherine was injecting something into his arm and Feilcher was again the only other one in the room.
"Wazzat?" he asked, noticing that he wasn't magically restrained any more. They must have assumed that the beating made him unable to get away.
"A lot of things." Katherine stepped back, an unreadable expression on her face. "The important ones are djinn poison, wraith venom, and silene capensis."
Why did that sound familiar? "African dream root?"
She looked at him in surprise. "Yes, that's one name for it. Feilcher is going to take a walk through your mind. Whatever you're hiding, you're certainly hiding it deep." Was that regret on her face? Maybe, but not enough to get her to stop. "It's probably best if you don't survive it."
Dean wanted to answer, but the world melted like that weird Dali painting. Then he was standing on his tiptoes looking into a crib and he remembered staring at his baby brother, just waiting for him to wake up, wanting to see his eyes again. Reality was a little bit fuzzy, but he could feel someone watching over his shoulder, and he felt a deep nausea, a sickness that someone was invading his memories like this. The family home faded and he recognized Pastor Jim's place, though everything was a lot bigger than it should be. He could hear a low conversation taking place between Jim and Dad, about whether or not they should take Sammy to the hospital. Dean realized what memory it was. Still too young for school, Sam had picked up strep throat, and his fever had spiked dangerously high. Dean remembered all too well the glassy look to Sam's eyes and a bone-deep terror that his brother would die.
They continued through some of the worst illnesses and injuries of Sam's life, and Dean realized that Feilcher was searching for the times when Sam would have used any supernatural abilities he had to save his own life.
Trying to fly and breaking his arm.
Clawed up by an angry spirit.
Thrown into a wall.
Shoved down the stairs.
On and on it went, with Dean soundlessly screaming for the invader to get the fuck out of my head! The pain in his head was horrific, but the feeling of violation was worse. When he didn't have anything else, he had Sam, and he was the only one who was allowed to live those memories as Sam's brother.
And he could feel Feilcher circling that fact, the one that even Sam himself didn't know, and couldn't know, not until he was healthier. Dean pushed, not even knowing what he was pushing against, trying to keep that to himself. He had to, to protect Sam. And he somehow knew if he gave that up, his mind would snap. It would be over. But the pressure was relentless and he didn't know how to fight it.
Dean saw Sam killing the hellhound, heading into Purgatory with Ajay the reaper, releasing Bobby's soul. No! No, no, no, no!
Sam lying in a hospital bed.
Dean fighting with an angel.
A ring of holy fire.
A…gun shot?
Someone was holding his head up, patting his cheek, and being very annoying. He said something very rude, but opened his eyes. "Sam? You look like shit."
One dimple. "You look…half dead. Let's get out of here." He was manhandled to his feet, and complained that he didn't need help even while his legs didn't seem to work. There were people all around them, but nobody tried to stop them. The ridiculous house seemed to last forever, then Dean recognized Katherine telling Sam the way to the garage.
"What? Why're y'helpin' now?" Dean demanded. Well, he actually kind of whispered, but she heard him anyway.
"Your brother killed the boss. And none of us wanted to work for him. So, we're leaving, and you can leave too."
Dean accepted that, and accepted Sam's help, because seriously, his stupid head was going to explode. He must have slept in the car Sam hotwired, because next he was on a lumpy bed and Sam was pulling his boots off.
"Happened?" he asked.
"I don't know." Sam shined a light in Dean's eyes one at a time, which was annoying but all too familiar. "I woke up in a really ugly room with all these people staring at me like I had two heads. I could hear you screaming in the next room. I jumped up and the people around me just kind of scattered. They hadn't even taken my gun. This old guy was leaning over you and I thought he was killing you so…I shot him. Then everyone just let us leave. What…are you okay, Dean?"
"Yeah. Nobody hurt you?"
"No, I'm not the one someone used for a punching bag. Tell me what happened to you."
"Bossy," grumbled Dean, letting his eyes drift closed. He was damn tired. "Asked me questions about our hunts, about the supernatural." It was kind of true. "Used some drug made of African dream root and wraith poison to get inside my head and it sucked. Now I need sleep."
"Okay."
Sam patted his chest. His voice sounded a bit off, so Dean cracked an eye. Sam was pissed about what had happened to Dean.
He didn't deserve Sam's righteous anger, but he could live with it. After sleeping for a week. He was just so relieved that Sam didn't have his figuring out a puzzle face on. He didn't have the energy to make up excuses or hide his guilt. He closed his eyes and pretended there weren't tears under his lids.
Did he regret saving Sam? Hell no.
Would he have to pay the piper? He knew he would.
WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER
Wrinkle-faced angels dragged Sam away while Dean screamed at them to stop. And Sam was staring at him with betrayal, tears running down his face. They were back at the hospital and even as Sam cried, he stopped breathing and all the machines around him fell silent as Death waved to Dean over chili cheese fries. He tried to follow, Sammy don't go, not without me, but he was trapped and held down.
"Stop, Dean. It's a nightmare. Wake up now. You're okay."
Dean couldn't get his eyes open, couldn't escape from his dream. "Sammy's dead." He'd never be okay again.
"No, Dean, I'm right here, and I'm fine. Open your eyes. Open your eyes. Now."
Dean got his eyes open and through his tears saw Sam's face.
"Hey, Dean. It's okay. You're okay." Sam hauled him up into a hug, and Dean relaxed into it. He didn't deserve it. He didn't deserve Sam's compassion, but God did he need it right now. He knew he'd be embarrassed later, but his defenses were gone.
"Thanks, Sammy."
But for hours after Sam went back to sleep, Dean laid awake and thought he deserved the nightmares.