Disclaimer #1: Dear CW/Mr. Kripke: Please forgive me for tearing, folding and otherwise mutilating your characters.
Disclaimer #2: Dear Ms. Dion: Please forgive me for depicting your husband as a demon. I'm sure he's great in the kitchen.
Sundry details: Generally gen-fic, OFC (and she's, like, a contortionist. Cool, eh?), adult-ish themes (read as: sex) and language, characters get banged up, much angst (but this chapter, heart-breaking resolution!). Oh, and hell, you'd best beware, cause that Céline Dion? She's some twisted. WIP, will be 9 chapters. Set before the season one-ending arc Written for the spnnorth challenge.
Tip o' the hat: It's summer, and the betas (jmm001 and Lemmypie) definitely have way better things to do than read this piffle…and yet they continue to aid and abet. They keep me honest, which is the biggest trick of all.
STF: The Winchester brothers follow Sam's disturbing dreams of bison and demons to Québec, where they encounter Céline Dion performing at a Cirque du Soleil casino extravaganza. Dean begins an affair with an ambiguously intentioned Cirque contortionist; Sam's visions reveal that Dean is in danger if Sam doesn't sacrifice himself to a mythological buffalo. Dean is targeted for special attention by the non-demonic, but definitely suspicious, Etienne Marcoux, the Cirque clown. Isolated from a touchy Dean, Sam discovers that Céline Dion's highest note opens an evil gateway, a talent that her manager and demon-possessed husband, René, is exploiting. Just as Sam discovers this, a Cirque contortionist falls on top of him, injuring him badly. He wakes up in Château Montebello, a luxury hotel some distance from the casino, Céline Dion hovering over him.
--
Sam snapped the phone shut, held it in his hand. Without any clothes, this was his lifeline to the world, and he wasn't about to hand it back to Céline Dion, who bounced on the balls of her feet, jittery as a caged marmoset angling for a bag of peanuts.
He had an hour, max.
An hour before all hell was going to break loose, delivered in the untimely form of his brother, who had sounded as though he'd cheerfully rip Château Montebello apart beam by hand-hewn beam if his brother wasn't delivered to him intact and unbruised this very instant. Sam knew this mood of Dean's, this directed and contained fury, subtle as a Scud missile. Sam didn't particularly like to think what Dean might do to him for being such an idiot in the first place.
He had one or two distracting bits of information for Dean, not the least of which was the fact that René was possessed by a demon, and that was something they could work with. Sam glanced at the diva, who stared back expectantly, unblinking as a sphinx.
"Is Mr. Dean coming to our party?" As though that was the most important thing going on.
Sam narrowed his stare. "When was the last time you prayed?" he side-stepped, mostly because he could not imagine Dean at Céline Dion's party, not in any way that didn't result in arrest. He didn't think she'd be fazed by non-sequiteurs.
He was rewarded with a dazzling smile. How the hell did those teeth get so white? And so...monumental?
"I go to church almosteveryday." Then her brow scrunched up. She'd confused herself. "When I am in Montréal. 'ere?" Gestured again, more game show drama. This beautiful room at the Château Montebello could be yours...if the price is right! "'ere? I go to the little chapel. I 'ave a priest wit me at alltimes." She bent over Sam, took his hand in both of hers and pressed it to her breast. "You wish a priest? Oh my god, you are dying! I will get a priest for you! C'est mon plaisir!"
With that declaration, she flapped out the room into the hallway beyond. A moment later, through the closed door, Sam heard, "Good morning, Mr. Armstrong! And you 'ave my little Pitou! Bonjour Pitou, opelaie!" Little yapping barks. "Mummy will take you for a walk. A hot day, il fait chaud, n'est-ce pas? Même à l'ombre."
So much for the priest. Still, good to know she had one and used one. If Céline Dion was possessed by a demon, Sam would eat his cell phone. No way anything was getting a foothold on that one. Immediately, he flung the covers aside, not considering the fact that he'd just had his hand against Céline Dion's breast because that was pretty much beyond his painkiller-addled faculties, and got to his feet. He swayed a little, reached out his free hand to steady himself against the dresser.
Taking a deep breath, he willed away the phantom bayou-big mosquitoes swarming around his head and found his clothes in a drawer, cleaned and pressed – Dean is going to die laughing, right after he kills me. No sign of blood on the clothes. That was good. An absence of blood; one less thing to set Dean off.
Sam had some difficulty dressing one-handed, but managed. When he was done, he lay back down on the bed, head both pounding and swimming. He glanced at his watch. Forty-five minutes, maybe less, because Dean would be driving fast, which was yet another thing Sam didn't want to think about. Driving fast with Béatrice in the car.
Not much he could do about that now. Now, or yet.
Scrubbed his face with the good hand, wincing with the pain of stitches and bruises. He couldn't sleep, was jumpy. The drugs hadn't kicked in and the thought of René and his demon-blackened eyes came back to him with force. A demon, another demon. When had there ever been so many of the suckers to deal with?
A savage slicing pain sheared through his head, not connected to the bruising or to the stitches, white hot, a fire poker jabbed through his temple. Drawing a breath to scream, he rolled in a ball, fingers of his right hand twisting in his hair, an instinctual desire to keep himself in this reality.
The buffalo – the zubir – stands over him, huffing slightly, eyes rolling red. Saliva drips white from its mouth and snout as it swings its head back and forth. Lowers its head, close enough to touch, if Sam reaches out. He'd sooner reach out to touch living flame, the business end of a blowtorch.
The breath he'd taken he now released, not in a scream, but in a series of pants, the kind animals made when they are injured. He saw the room, the beams, and tried to keep focus on them, because he couldn't control this, didn't want this.
A shrill hum vibrates through the air, and Sam thinks it is the slash of insect noise, but it is the note, high, almost too high to hear. On the hill, far away, a roiling mass of sooty black, malevolent, red contained within. A movement, all movement, but this one purposeful, and Sam sees wolves crest the hill behind René-demon, large ones, eyes glowing yellow.
In the expensive hotel room, Sam clawed at his head, wondering that he wasn't pulling out his hair in clumps. The noise he made was recognizable: a whimper.
He can't breathe, but has to because now he must run. Has to run with the zubir, who is leading his herd away from the wolves. Towards the cliff. Run.
No, Sam thought, just as the white light enveloped him, drowning the pain, soothing everything. No, you're stronger than this. And didn't know if he was talking to the zubir, or to himself.
--
"Sam!" Pounding that might break down the door, could break down the door. Would, if Sam didn't respond this second.
"Shit, Dean, I'm here!" Sam called from the bed, where he lay propped up on a Himalayan pile of pillows, a cold cloth on his forehead. He'd gotten that after he'd recovered from the vision, seen what a mess the left side of his face was, thought that Dean wasn't likely to notice blood splattered clothing in any case, since his face looked like the meat counter at a grocery store.
The door, carved oak, heavy as a field artillery piece, creaked ominously. It was not a variety easily forced, and Dean might well fracture his shoulder. Goddamn, it was like arguing with a Pamplona bull. But that brought up images of running wild with beasts, which was too fresh, too raw. Too real and imminent.
"Dean, I'm coming!" he shouted again, then muttered, "Take a fucking pill." He got to his feet, opened the door, and released Dean into the room with a lion tamer's fabricated calm.
Dean had the good sense to come alone. Sam leaned against the door once he'd shut it, and Dean looked him up and down, eyes resting on Sam's left arm, bound professionally across his chest, a line of neat dark stitches dividing his brow. Dean's mouth worked, pursed a little, like he was sucking a hard candy.
"What happened?" The question wasn't the first thing that had crossed his mind, obviously, but Sam was thankful for the attempt at civility after the furious drive and the door pounding.
"Could we…?" Sam murmured, taking a few steps to the sunny sitting area, which overlooked the lawns and the river. Though he looked as though he'd rather be doing just about anything else, Dean sat, worried the ring on his right hand with the fingers of his left, not looking at Sam, waiting. He'd asked a question, after all.
And he deserved an answer, Sam reckoned. He did.
"I've been having dreams," Sam started. And once started, he didn't stop. Sam told Dean about the zubir running over the cliff's edge, but also about himself running with them. Looked up when he said that, but Dean's attention was still on his ring, though a line had formed between his hooded eyes. "The dreams always end that way, with me going over the cliff. With the buffalo. With that big buffalo. Can't tell yet, but I don't know if I'm supposed to save him, or if he's going to save me. Or if he's going to kill me. All I know is that I'm going to have to get myself in front of him and…" chose his word with caution, knowing what it might ignite. "…submit. I don't have a choice."
"The zubir," Dean said, but quietly, seriously, almost to himself. "So, your dreams? You think they're coming true?"
Sam didn't miss the slight quality of fear in Dean's voice, folded into the question softly, like their dad used to slip whiskey into his morning coffee.
At least Dean would meet his eyes. Asking. Sam nodded. "Yeah, but that's not all."
Not by a long shot. He told Dean about the diva's high debilitating note, the one that might have caused the acrobat to fall, that certainly had caused Sam's head to reverberate with the unleashing of some dark power. Demon-possessed René and the threat he'd made, how Céline was too scattered to be possessed herself, was probably just a tool in the hands of the demon. What Etienne had said about just setting things in motion, before Sam had blacked out next to the dead acrobat.
In the end, the only thing Sam didn't say, couldn't say, was that Dean was in danger if Sam didn't do what he must. What good would that accomplish, other than driving Dean to rash acts?
Sometime in all that, Dean got to his feet, paced the small space between window and fireplace, finally turned to Sam when the words had dried up like water on summer pavement. "We're going."
"What?" Sam's brows met. "We can't go. Didn't you just hear what I said? We're dealing with a demon."
Dean didn't move, only looked at Sam as though he was a determined child in the candy aisle. "Yeah, I know. A demon that's threatening you, a buffalo that's going to kill you, and a fucking singer who can blast a note that only you can hear. Sounds as though you need to be as far away from here as possible." He shrugged. "We can put some distance behind us, do the research, got lots of demon-lore literature in the back of the car, and I can come back to do whatever's necessary. But you?" And he shook his head, much in the same way their father always had.
Sam took a deep breath, but didn't react as he once had to that head-shake, which Dean was obliviously borrowing from their father. He nodded back, and could see that Dean was surprised, that it took the advantage from him.
Because Sam knew that if he went along now, he at least had the opportunity of talking Dean out of it later; if they argued this minute, Sam would lose. Dean was focused, and Sam injured. Odds were against Sam right this minute. He scanned the room a last time, somewhat reluctant to leave it, Dean waiting for him in the hallway.
"Anybody you gotta say goodbye to? That freak on the phone, maybe?" Dean asked, clipped and sullen, for all he'd won the contest. Worried, and hiding it behind sarcasm.
"Nope." Sam stood tall beside Dean, forced him to look up. "You?" Meant something else, of course. Meant Béa, though Dean had yet to even mention her name.
Watched as his brother shrugged, could read the sadness and determination in the set of his shoulders. "I'm good," and Sam knew from Dean's bluff resignation that he'd done this a million times, left without saying goodbye. Left without acknowledging that something important had slipped away, or been stolen. The only difference this time was that Sam was here to witness it.
They stared at each other, and Sam wouldn't prod further, because he knew this was as close as Dean was going to come to saying it: I choose you.
--
When they had first arrived, even as Béa had been enveloped in the arms of her fellow Cirque performers, Dean had turned away, been more preoccupied with finding his brother than figuring out what demon was killing acrobats. His ranking system was pretty straightforward, easy to remember most days. Exterminating demons came somewhere below family in peril, though higher than exorcising poltergeists or even killing werewolves or shapechangers. Offing demons topped the evil list, more or less. None of them came close to protecting Sam, or their father.
He'd never told their father that, had already visualized the argument that would result. He wasn't stupid, not when it came to John Winchester.
But Dean hadn't figured out where Béa stood in the mix and now he wasn't going to have time to work it out. Some regret about that. He would admit to regret, but nothing more. The place beyond regret was a foreign country and Dean didn't want to get a passport. Still, he answered Sam's searching question – and fuck it if Sam didn't always come up with the searching question – with a practiced insouciance, and knew he was fooling precisely no one, not even himself. Still, Sam was wise enough to let it go, followed him meekly to the car, even though Dean knew that his little brother was only working out how he'd convince Dean to go back.
Dean was not coming back, not this century. Sam dreaming of his own death? Dreaming that he'd have to sacrifice himself? Okay, Sam had used the word 'submit' but when submission resulted in death, that was the classic definition of 'sacrifice' in Dean's massive book of shitty ideas. And Dean wasn't about to let Sam sacrifice himself, not for anything. If he could, Dean would come back and clean things up, but Sam wasn't going to get anywhere near this.
The twinned notions of leaving and not coming back seemed so goddamn clear for nearly fifteen whole minutes, the amount of time it took them to get in the Impala, find their way out the parking lot, wind through the wooded drive that connected with the main road. All the time it took Sam to see the sign across the road from Château Montebello, the one for Parc Oméga.
Dean hadn't seen the sign on the way in, had been too concerned, too worked up about the phone call and about Sam. It seemed ludicrous now that he'd somehow missed the huge advertisement for the game park, the enormous wooden sign that was more of a sculpture than a wayfinder. Green paint and yellow cedar, emblazoned with the head of an antlered elk and a biggest fucking visual representation of a buffalo Dean had ever seen.
Dean slammed on the brakes, scattering loose gravel on the roadside. Both brothers stared without speaking for a good minute, all the while the Impala rumbling, yearning for the open road almost as much as Dean was. Sinking heart, though, right through to the seat cushion. Damn. He almost didn't want to turn to Sam, because he knew what he'd see. Dean had thought he'd won this one, and he was wrong.
Sam: slight smile turning dimples into weapons sharp as knives, dark eyes not precisely dancing, not yet, because this was serious and Sam wouldn't want to piss him off, not on purpose. But raised brows, the we've got no choice, Dean look, the how can you turn tail and run from this look. The let's go kick some demon ass look, which was so eerily similar to Sam's let's go to the library look that Dean had always had trouble figuring out the difference.
It cost sixteen dollars to get in. Each. Drive through the front gates, here's the map of the twelve hundred square acre park, only get out on the designated safe trails, and tune into the English language radio station for an audio tour. Gates close at 5:30, so you have a few hours.
Thanks very fucking much, Dean thought, forking over what seemed like an extraordinary amount of money to look at animals.
"Do you want a bag of carrots?" the clerk at the entrance booth asked. "Only five dollars."
"No," Dean returned scathingly, jammed his change into his wallet and spun it onto the dashboard.
"Yes!" Sam said at the same time, looked at Dean meaningfully.
Fuck, I wish I was the psychic, because I don't get where you're going with this at all, Sammy.
Sam at least knew enough to pay for the carrots himself, that Dean wasn't going to pay that kind of money for fucking root vegetables. They drove slowly in behind a family van from New Hampshire, the kids' hands out the windows, brandishing carrots, war-bound savages.
It was a hot day, and Dean rolled down his window all the way, even though the booth clerk had advised against it. Sam shot him a look; hell, they had enough arms in the back to make the buffalo slaughter in Dances with Wolves look like a PETA rally. Lighten up, Sammy. It's hot, you've brought me to a game park, and I'm keeping my window rolled down. I hunt really bad shit, I'm not going to be intimidated by a bunch of deer.
At first, it was boar, not deer. Lots and lots of boar, surrounding the van in front. Dean shifted uncomfortably, wondering if game park etiquette precluded leaning on the horn. Man, they're pigs, people. Not unicorns.
"Don't," Sam cautioned, and Dean saw a thread of sweat roll down the side of Sam's bruised face.
"You reading my mind again?" Dean muttered, not knowing if he meant it. It just came out.
Sam chuckled softly. "I don't need to read your crummy mind, dude. You're like an open book. Besides," and he looked over, eyes now dancing in a the way that only dark eyes could, "I can't read minds." A little pause, enough to know that Sam was talking about more than honking the horn. "You know that, right?"
Dean took a breath, didn't know what to say, stared at the big mama pig ahead who was putting her hooves against the outside of the van, scratching it all to hell. If those little fuckers put so much as a hairy snout on his car, he'd open up with more than a salt gun. Shrugged. "If you could read minds, you'd be wearing a turban and hunched over a crystal ball at every county fair from here to Oregon. We'd make a killing."
Sam laughed out loud and something shifted sideways in Dean. Something known and familiar locked into place, though Dean would have had trouble naming what it was, if he'd been inclined to name it, which he wasn't. Whatever it was, it felt good and easy and it had to do with how he'd always been with Sam and how Sam had always been with him. Slightly different configuration, a cut bond re-tied, but secure and tight.
The van ahead moved slowly forward, the childish shrieks faint in the still, close air, and the pigs turned en masse to look expectantly at the Impala. Dean gunned it, didn't care if he took out a few of them. Sam made a noise low in his throat, but didn't say anything. After all, they were here for bigger game.
First, though, they had to dutifully tail after the mini-van through the wolf pens, the bear enclosure, up several dusty hills through packs of hungry fallow deer and elk.
The elk – wapiti, Sam corrected, studying the circuit map the booth clerk had given them – were big, and they were surprisingly ravenous, considering they'd been hand-fed bunny food for hours on end. The mini-van removed itself to a rest stop, and the Impala rumbled noisily through a sunny maple-shaded glade. Dean braked as an elk wandered lazily across the road, stopped and looked at them.
A Wild Animal Kingdom ambush, Dean thought, recognizing the maneuver.
Sam was studying the piece of paper in his hand. Entirely typical – there could be monsters converging on the car and as long as Sam had a map to consult, no way would he look up.
Sam also had the carrots on his lap. A honey-liquid smile spread across Dean's face, and he slowly, silently, rolled up his window, ignoring the ten or so elk that had wandered over to the car.
"Looks like the buffalo pasture is just down the next hill." Sam said, gesturing absently to the map as Dean arranged his features to one of tepid interest. Over Sam's shoulder, a huge antlered head was nosing in through the window, saliva dripping from its mouth and worse from its flaring nostrils.
C'mon Sam, please show me some inborn innate reflex to clear and fucking present danger.
The antlers prevented the elk from actually getting into the car through Sam's window, but it was the drip of saliva on Sam's good shoulder that finally alerted him to the fact that a huge ungulate was jonesing for the carrots on his lap. Sam startled badly, enough to make Dean bark with laughter. Sam ripped a carrot from the bag and the elk took it, withdrew with all the steady grace of a huge puppet. Exit stage right. More where he came from, though. A cervidae mob scene.
Sam rolled up his window as though harpies were attacking. Dean's amusement faded quickly as twenty or more of the elk surrounded the car, licking the windows like Mother Nature's squeegee kids. "No more carrots!" Dean shouted at Sam, using the same logic he had with panhandlers and buskers, though his death stare was less effective on elk than it was on guitar-players mauling House of the Rising Sun on a street corner.
He revved the engine, hoping to encourage the elk to move on their own accord, knowing that hitting an animal that size would make a big fucking mess of the Impala. I can wash the car, he said under his breath. All this fucking elk snot will wash off. The elk wandered away, not really unduly alarmed by the ominous growl of a V-8 engine as wielded by a demon-hunter, all sense of what was dangerous worn away by vapid human kindness. Wild and kind did not easily co-exist, Dean thought as the elk dropped a piece of the carrot to the ground and an intrepid boar piglet scooped it up.
They crested the hill, and the forest opened onto a long narrow meadow that ended naturally at a steep cliff, which dropped precipitously away to some region beyond Dean's sight. In the center of the open field, a bare-limbed tree grasped the dirt, no longer living, dead branches fingering a new relationship with sky. A few cars stopped further down the road, surrounded by more elk. Further away, nestled between hill and forest, as though they were observing the scene below, were more than thirty buffalo, dark blotches like cloud-shadows against the sun-bleached grass. Dean idled the car, just looking, hearing Sam's breath hitch beside him and not wanting to look.
First of all, they were big. And the biggest one of all was huge, more than two thousand pounds, head as big as a boulder. Finally, Dean turned to Sam. He was ashen and Dean fought the urge to say 'fuck it' and drive out of Parc Oméga as fast as the Impala would take them, keep going to the border, drive through that without stopping as well.
He couldn't. They were in this together, and he wasn't the boss of Sam, and Sam was right to see this through. He watched as Sam visibly swallowed, and some color returned to his face. Saw the little nod Sam gave, as though he'd just lectured himself on the very same thing.
"Down there," Sam said instead, pointing with a finger to a gently sloping shoulder of the road next to the blasted tree, where Dean could park the car in the tall grass. They rolled to a stop, Dean's better than 20/20 vision picking out the signs in both English and French, warning of the cliff and reminding people not to get out of their cars, no matter how appealing the idea of running with fucking buffalo was.
The sun was merciless and they rolled down the windows an inch or two. Dean ran a hand across his face, felt the cold sweat there. Almost immediately, the buffalo started to move, came closer, ignoring the other cars parked several hundred yards away. Nothing cute or fuzzy about these things, Dean thought.
The largest of them, the male, with huge horns curved like talons, brushed against the Impala, rocking it as though it was made of paper. Dean swallowed, glanced at his window, where the beast was pressed against it, one eye catching him, red-rimmed and somehow judgmental. He was holding his breath, he realized, letting it out slowly. Like the T-Rex in Jurassic Park, the buffalo filled the window, coldly figuring out who was who. Dean couldn't take his eyes from it, knowing that it somehow was more than a buffalo, manifestly more than that, and that it knew him.
The only possible sound that could have taken Dean's attention from the buffalo at the window was the one he now heard: Sam opening his door.
Dean reached across, grabbed a handful of Sam's plaid shirt as though he was pulling him from a wreck, which in a way he was. "Don't you fucking do it," he hissed, staring at the dark eyes, the bruised cheekbone. Alarmed at the resignation he saw there.
With his good hand, Sam pried off Dean's fingers and Dean could have sworn that for one minute Sam was holding his hand for more reason than to simply dislodge him. Trying to tell him something, words Dean didn't want to hear.
"It's okay," Sam said. Not 'I'll be okay', or 'Don't worry.' Words more fatalistic than that. Sam's calm determination stunned Dean and he knew he ought to say something, do something to stop him. They had no plan; they were planless. Or he was, anyway.
The buffalo was leaning against Dean's door, all the weight of it and Dean could sooner move a house than get that door open. And it was now cold, goddamn it, and Dean knew this kind of unnatural cold on a summer's day, made the hair on his bare arms lift in vestigial response. Not ghost-cold, though. Colder than that, more immediate, and bigger, somehow. As Dean glanced at the buffalo eye not two inches from his own, Sam escaped out his open door, sliding from his brother's concerned grasp like a bar of soap in a bathtub.
Through the windshield, Dean watched as Sam came around the front of the car, his unbound arm splayed wide – what, like the buffalo thinks you have a gun, Sammy? – and stood silently, waiting. Beside Dean, the big buffalo moved slightly, and a groan shuddered the car. He didn't need a monitor to hear his own heart. Calculating the distance between himself and Sam's open door, factoring in the stick and the console, he knew he couldn't reach Sam before the buffalo did. He slowly reached under the seat. Never keep all your weapons in one place, he heard his father's words in his head as though John was sitting in the passenger seat.
Drew out the Glock, slid the safety off.
Would it make a dent in the buffalo? In something so big it made Sam look like a lanky kindergartener? Dean felt sick, knew that a shot through the window would be worthless. And Sam just stood there.
The buffalo moved from the door, took a step to Sam – who had come all the way around the front of the Impala, was no more than six feet from the fucking thing. Dean shivered; the cold coming off the thing was incredible. The buffalo snorted, loud enough that Dean jumped. Only a half-second, and he pulled the chrome handle up, shoved open the door with his shoulder and brought the handgun to bear.
Sam met his eyes. Very, very slightly, shook his head once. Sam was calm, returned his stare to the zubir. Was trying to understand, because that's what Sam did. Dean cocked the gun, because that's what he did.
Then the cold faded. Something elemental whisped away. The circumstances weren't right. Something more was needed to make the transaction, whatever fucked-up exchange this was going to be. Lack of demon, or of high note sung by a diva, Dean had no idea. Dean could see the puzzled look on his brother's face, the one he wore when he didn't know what was expected of him.
On the other hand, it might not be a god staring down Sam in a sacrificial glade anymore, but it was an enormous wild animal, and Dean brought the gun up, wondered where the best place to shoot would be. He was saved from making the decision. With a final snort, a dip of the head, the large buffalo, no longer the zubir, moved slowly away, drawing the herd with him.
Dean could breathe again, slumped onto the Impala's seat, rested the gun against his thigh, let off the hammer, slid the safety back on. Held onto it until Sam got back into the car.
Sam was drenched in sweat, was that shaky green color that most people turned before they passed out. "This is the place for it, Dean. Something's missing. I don't think he was ready. Or maybe I wasn't." He didn't seem certain, or determined, or poised. He was young, and scared.
Dean discovered that he didn't have spit in him, was completely dry.
"Demon's part of this, Sam," he said finally. "Said so yourself."
Sam nodded, unhappy to be proven right, perhaps. "Céline Dion said that the room was mine for as long as I needed it."
Dean leaned his forehead against the steering wheel, closed his eyes, the rush of adrenaline started to morph into dyspeptic relief. He bent from the waist, placed the gun under Sam's seat without a word, made sure Sam saw him do it. With the return motion, he shifted the Impala into drive. "Let's figure out René first. Do our homework. We'll narrow it down." Pulled out gently, eyes tracking the progress of the buffalo as they disappeared into the woods. "And we'll settle up with the zubir later."
Used 'we'. Hoped Sam noticed.
--
Since Dean wasn't a doctor, Sam didn't consider it going against doctor's orders, no matter how strenuously Dean made his argument. A party wouldn't kill Sam. A party might make him feel better. A party would certainly give them opportunity to scope out René in a public place, because they sure as hell weren't making much progress with the traditional research methods.
Dean had ordered a massive meal and charged it to the room. He'd done it with unmitigated glee, ordered things he'd probably never even heard of just to pad the bill. Sam had happily eaten most of it, several moldering books open on the room's mahogany dining table, trying to find the vector between demons and aural-operated apertures and bison. It apparently didn't exist.
His Latin was a bit rusty, however, and it took him about three read-throughs and a lucky break (an errant crumb of greasy foie gras had dropped onto the exact passage he needed) to make a connection he ought to have made about two hours past. In celebration, he swallowed a couple of aspirin with a glass of what might have been champagne. It cost over a hundred Canadian dollars a bottle, whatever it was. Cleared his throat, drawing Dean's attention from slowly ripping leaves off a steamed artichoke.
Dean tossed the leaves into a growing pile, wiped his fingers on the linen napkin that muffled the champagne bottle like a scarf on a cold day. "What? You find something?"
"Yeah," Sam pointed to a passage in the woodblock-cut, leather bound book that he'd purchased at a garage sale several years back. He was surprised that it was still in the trunk, in fact, considering it was in Latin and didn't have any of the usual gruesome pictures of demonic torture that Dean had loved as a kid. "Forgot that the root for 'work' – you know, opera, operor, opes – is slightly different from 'opening', which is sometimes os."
Dean's face tried to be accommodating, as though forgetting something like that was normal. As though remembering that kind of thing was typical. Sam disguised a smile. Dean, disgusted perhaps, returned to his dissection of the artichoke.
"So, if a demon has access to a certain pitch, to a specific tonal vibration, the demon can open up, can tear open communication with dark powers, with a more powerful dark…power…"
"A really, really dark power, all powerful, like?" Dean had come to the fuzzy artichoke heart, science-fiction weird, something that would kill an away-team member on a Star Trek episode. His expression pondered the age-old question: why did people put this stuff in their mouths? It was the same expression Sam witnessed whenever he suggested sushi. "Powerful dark powers, more powerful than other dark powers?"
"Shut up. I mean that the demon might use a specific note…"
"…like the one Céline Dion let loose earlier today…"
Sam nodded. "Yeah, the demon could use that to open communication with a higher dark…power."
"Are we talking Satan, Sam? Like big Devil, Dark Lord, all that?" Dean had out the hunting blade Sam had seen him use to eviscerate several unimaginable monsters and with which he sometimes trimmed his fingernails. He picked off the fluffy choke, turned the heart over in his fingers, brow furrowed.
"I thought you didn't believe in God or the Devil, Dean," Sam questioned softly.
"Guy's gotta keep his bases covered." Offered the mutilated heart to Sam, who shook his head slightly, then tossed it onto the pile of leaves, cleaned his knife on the tablecloth. Sighed, glanced at Sam as he did so. "So, our demon's got hold of René, who uses Céline Dion's four octave range to open up the gates of hell. Have I got that right, Sam? Because if that's the case, I'm selling it to the Inquirer. Fuck this demon-hunting business."
Sam turned the book around, even though he knew Dean's Latin was abysmal. He tapped the passage. "See? Demon uses the note, along with a blood sacrifice. Each time the gate is opened, the demon receives more power. Each time, the kind of sacrifice becomes more explicit, more demanding."
He had Dean's attention. "Starts out with chickens, ends up with beautiful girls? Okay, but how does the buffalo fit? Is it higher up on the sacrifice scale than circus acrobats?" Glared at Sam, green eyes arctic bright. "Than psychic geekboys?"
Sam didn't have an answer to that. He knew where he could get one, though. "The party. René will be there. Let's ask him."
Maybe too direct, because Dean slammed the knife down. They'd already had this argument. "You're like a dog with a bone, Sam. Doctor said you should rest up. I'll go." Looked at the book. No pictures to help. "Any exorcisms for this kind of demon, Sam?"
Back to square one. "The doctor didn't tell me to rest," Sam said, not rising to the proffered bait. "You told me to rest. You're officially my boss, not my doctor, Mr. Dean." He got to his feet, fighting for fleeting dignity. His shoulder was sore, and his head worse, but the painkillers took the edge off and he wanted this to be over. "And the exorcism? Yeah, there's one." Gestured to his forehead, hoped it didn't look too stupid, considering how banged up he was. "It's all up here."
--
"You 'ave come!" Céline announced, raising one arm, turning the hand and drawing it down in a perfect simulation of welcome. The sort of welcome you might get if you happened to have wandered onto a Broadway production of All That Jazz.
In some ways, the entire room was like a stage set: immaculately lit with candles and tiny halogen lights, large mirrors reflecting dancing flame, the mood somber and restrained, despite the occasional loud outburst emanating from their hostess. The room was just the right size to accommodate fifty people, some standing, others seated on white leather chairs and sofas scattered artfully on the white shag carpet. Red lilies bristled in crystal vases, lances after a bloody tournament. Large French doors were open to the night, where a private deck offered views of forest and river. A white piano the size of a Cadillac sat unused; music played softly on an expensive stereo, inconsequentially, the aural equivalent of eggshell white wall paint.
Dean spotted a tray full of raw oysters on the buffet table, some kind of roasted bird with the feathers reinserted up its ass, a platter of gleaming smoked salmon the color of blood. Jesus, glad I ate before I got here. The artichoke had been bad enough.
He craned his neck to get a good look at the crowd; nowhere did he see any sign of René. Where was the asshole? Usually, he wasn't far from his golden-egg producing goose. And the goose was very close to Dean at the moment. Veryvery close.
Céline Dion came up to his shoulder, maybe, though she seemed bigger, seemed huge, her head ungainly the same way that the buffalo's head was, strangely stuck onto her body as though there'd been a mix up at the factory.
"You are Mr. Dean?" She waved him down towards her, and kissed him on both cheeks, her lips brushing past his cheek, a perfectly-executed air kiss. The bis, Béa had informed him at some point. The diva's perfume was sweet, clung to him. She was dressed for performance, as though a spotlight might suddenly find her, had on a sequined blue outfit that Dean recognized, that he'd cursed for inflicting pain. Behind her glittering blue shoulder, Sam cast pale glances, bruises livid against his white skin. Young, he always looks so young when he's hurt.
As usual, Dean was forgetting to be mad at Sam. Damn it, he couldn't stay mad for more than three minutes. "Uh, yeah," he agreed, going with it, understanding that the diva wasn't actually listening to him.
"Oh, Béatrice! Il arrive!" Céline called and Dean used her brief inattention to disappear between two of the larger Lithuanians, who milled about with glasses of clear vodka, generating dark stares and muttered imprecations. They were as out of place as he was, Dean noted with satisfaction.
But Dean had business, didn't want the distraction, had hoped that Béa might not be here, though that was an empty hope. He caught sight of Sam, now talking with Tadeusz, Béa at the Lithuanian's side, seemingly hiding from Céline. Still no sign of René. In evading both Béa and the diva, Dean stepped onto the dark balcony, night now fully embracing this part of the world, the river glittering in the distance, air clear and pine-scented, making Dean think: car.
Though a salivating elk could sneak up on Sam unawares, Dean prided himself on being more alert. He leaned casually on the railing, peered into the darkness, heard the faint noise of conversation. The music faded, then he heard someone start playing the piano. Heard more than that. So he didn't turn when he said, "I was wondering when you'd show up."
And Etienne's soft chuckle sounded more amused than evil, though it was probably both.
--
René played the piano. Not just any run-of-the-mill piano, of course, but a white baby grand with two overflowing vases of some kind of tropical flower Sam didn't recognize, but that looked expensive. Not the sort sold at supermarkets.
The manager-demon been waiting for Sam to come over, obviously, sent away an attentive couple who'd been listening to his innocuous tinklings as soon as Sam stopped by the open box. Sam studied how the felt hammers rose and fell, marveling at humankind's ingenuity even as every fiber of his being vibrated like the strings. Struck nerves. He recognized it, similar to how he'd felt in front of the buffalo today. But not quite the same, because he'd felt a connection to the zubir, and there was no connection here, none whatsoever.
The demon looked up, eyes normal, if a little opaque.
"You came," he murmured, voice low, sound of fresh grave. Unsurprised.
"Leave him alone," Sam said. It was all he had to say, in fact.
"I don't think you understand," the demon continued, light, dinner table conversation, might as well be talking about the latest reality-show singers, or the comparative bubble size of San Pellegrino and Perrier. "You were thinking of leaving today." Not a question. Sam swallowed, knew he had a twitch when he got angry, felt it now.
"I didn't."
"You won't. I'll prove to you why." And the demon looked up briefly, the fingers tracing patterns across the keys that weren't quite music, weren't quite noise, but something in between.
"I don't need any proof."
"Oh, I think you do," and the eyes swirled black, and Sam took a step back, breath coming hard, oxygen turned suddenly to mustard gas. "I think you need to know what you're dealing with." Looked back down to the piano. "Meet me by the tree after the party."
No need to say which tree. There was only one, blasted and lonely in the middle of the dark plain that ended with the cliff. In the forests of ancient Lithuania and Germany and Scandinavia, such a tree would have been hung with strips of youthful flesh to summon and appease the zubir. What was missing. Sam had seen the site of his dreams today, the buffalo plain in Parc Oméga, but did not know the moment of reckoning, not until now. Tonight, it was going to be tonight, and he wasn't ready.
Sam shook his head. Despite his best intentions, despite all the threats, he found that he didn't want to do this alone, after all. Which meant he had to stall. "I'm not stupid. No way."
But the demon just smiled. "I think you will. Once you understand what you could lose." The tune he was playing changed into a minor key, and what had been innocuous now became sinister. "He's so predictable, your brother. So easy to find." And in the space of time it took René to glance at the piano keys, the eyes had returned to normal and the music paused. "Now, what can I play for you?"
And suddenly Sam realized he had no idea where Dean was.
--
"Why are you still here?" Etienne asked, coming up to lean against the railing with Dean, though he put his back to it, tipped his expensively coiffed head to look at the stars. "I thought you'd be long gone."
A good question, Dean thought, not looking at the clown. "Job's not done," Dean answered after a long moment of silence. "Why are you still here?"
Another laugh, genuinely amused. "La même chose," Etienne answered with a flash of teeth. "Same here. Can't quite seem to leave the party."
"You work for him?" Dean chanced.
Etienne shrugged, as Dean suspected he would. "I don't work for anybody." And this was a game: one question, one answer. A bizarre round of truth or dare. Again.
"Do you and that brother of yours have a plan?" Etienne wondered aloud, all smiles. Dean felt like punching him.
Instead, he cocked his head to one side, grim smile in response, teeth gritted behind lips. "Kinda," he admitted.
"It's dangerous, you know. You should have a plan. What do you Americans call it? An exit strategy."
Dean's turn. "And Béa? Who does she work for?" It wasn't really important, not in any way that counted. He could have asked so many other things.
This time, Etienne didn't laugh. He turned to Dean, was hardly a physical threat, was slight, wiry. All sinew and bone and nerve. His eyesight slowly adjusting to the dark, Dean could make out Etienne's quick lick of his lips. "I told your brother. You're your own worst enemy. Can't see what's in front of you." Sighed sadly, and it infuriated Dean.
His hands balled into fists and Etienne laughed again, a long peal. "Can't think it through, can't argue with it, can't get to the bottom of it. Might as well hit it. Good evening, Dean Winchester." Waited for Dean to take a swing and because the clown wanted it, Dean denied him.
Denied Etienne out of spite, which wasn't really Dean's style, but he'd make allowances for this fucker. Etienne patted him once on the shoulder, slowly made for the party room. Stopped at the doorway and looked back, interest kindling in his eyes. Dean crushed his anger, pushed it down like one of those springing practical joke snakes in a can. Figure it out, Winchester. He wants you to get mad.
After Etienne left, Dean stood on the balcony for another few minutes, not wanting to be part of the warmth inside, the weirdness inside. Every once in awhile, he'd hear a bray of diva-laughter and cringed.
Let it come to him: They were entertaining. He and Sam amused Etienne, which was his point, was his whole fucking reason for being.
By the time Sam found him outside, frantic with boyish worry – where were you, dude? – Dean had worked it out. There was only one thing Etienne could be, and Dean didn't quite know how to handle it, because this was god territory, and like the zubir, it was a little beyond the garden-variety poltergeist.
Sam had his buffalo. Dean? Well, Dean had a Trickster.
--
When they were kids, Sam often stayed up too late watching monster movies, and so Dean got pretty good at putting him to bed. Sam was so tired, so done in, that it was almost effortless. Tonight, one little remonstration, 'but I'm not tired' and two more painkillers dry-swallowed, and Dean could have practically pointed his forefinger against Sam's chest and pushed him into bed.
Dean pulled open the hide-a-bed, considered it balefully as Sam shifted restlessly on the big bed, his one good arm flung wide. Dean was feeling many things, but none of them could he identify as tired. Sore. Worried. So alert he was almost alarmed. It was hot in the room because he hated the cool ersatz air of the a/c and had turned it off and opened a window. Wanted more of the pine smell, realized it reminded him of their father's car, now his car, which was weird and didn't bear thinking about too long or too hard.
Wanted a night swim. He'd clocked too many years traveling alone, and impromptu swims were one way to alleviate the boredom and the heat. Gave him something to do that wasn't killing or preparing to kill, or cleaning up from a kill. Stolen swims were clean, and he sometimes needed that.
An unknown river at night, though, that was just stupid, was asking for trouble, and he didn't plan on dying that way, a headline in a small-town paper, 'Tourist drowns in local current'. Or whatever the French translation of it would be. This place had a pool, he could see it from their window, a later addition to the old hotel, enclosed on three sides since the weather around here would only allow outside swimming for about two months of the year. It was past midnight so he brought a piece of plastic and a paperclip, his make-do keys to anywhere.
The pool was huge, and the lights from under the bluegreen water lit the otherwise darkened poolroom, illuminating a pile of towels, a diving board, a sitting area with wrought iron furniture, a wet bar and a massage table. He found the light switch, killed the pool lights so it was completely dark, the only illumination coming from through the windows. He put one shoe in the door, didn't want to get locked in if he was in a hurry. The one solid wall was faced with rough timber, signifying this was a hunting lodge, something that he found perversely funny. A hunting lodge with four stars and an Olympic sized pool.
As he pulled his t-shirt over his head, Dean glanced through one of the floor-to-ceiling windows, could see their room three stories above. A hollow silence permeated the space, only the sound of lapping water and Dean stripped down to skin, didn't bother to keep the grin at bay. Fear of getting caught added pleasure to it, of course.
He'd done about twenty laps when something in the sound quality changed, altered, and even though his ears were full of water, he was almost waiting for this, he realized. Had been on alert for a reason. Shook drops from his hair, treading water in the deep end, turned to where a slight figure sat by the poolside, feet trailing in the shallows.
He took a deep breath, dove under swam up to the edge, emerged by her feet, but did not touch, only rested his elbows on the tiled surface. It was too dark to see her face, but he thought that might be a good thing.
"Do you always find me?" he asked.
Béa sighed. Nodded. Reached out a hand to rest on his head. A convulsive spasm of need coursed through him, like being hit by lightning. Shit.
"You okay?" He hadn't asked earlier, when he'd dropped her off with the other performers. She'd lost a friend today. He'd almost left without saying goodbye, though she wouldn't know that. She probably didn't know that. Actually, he'd likely had it written all over him, transparent fool that he was.
Again, she nodded. "That first night?" she said, voice small, but not needing to be big, not in this cavernous space, all reflective surfaces that amplified sound, amplified so many things. She put both her hands between her knees, only wearing a thin white cotton summer dress that was getting wet at the hem. Dean didn't move for fear of stopping her words. "That first night, after my drop. Etienne said," took a breath, "he said, after I came off-stage, that I should look for you. Look for the one with the flower."
There, she'd said it. Even though it was shallow enough to stand, Dean let his body float, didn't want to feel gravity. Still waited, because it was better than asking questions.
"He didn't say what to do. Just to find you." She might have been crying; her voice was thick. "It was the only thing he said, but I was scared. He scares me."
No wonder, Dean thought, thinking of Etienne's opaque machinations, his whims and needs.
He cleared his throat. "And then I called you." Damage done, hook in the fish. She had needed to do nothing else. Etienne had required her to do nothing else, had perhaps depended on Dean's own bad judgment to do the rest. Etienne had set things in motion and could take the comfy chair in the front row.
Still, there were things outside Etienne's influence, things that had causal relationships to the Trickster's original act, but no evil of their own. Béa had been sent. Once, and once only. Was the rest – the cupboard under the stage, the Hilton hotel room – fruit from the poisoned tree? Etienne's reach was not that long. Dean wasn't a puppet, had his own ideas about who he fucked and didn't.
"Je suis désolée. Pardonne-moi, je t'en prie." Eyes on him, voice soft. She might not know what her speaking in French did to him. Actually, she probably did. He didn't care.
"It's okay," he murmured. Glanced up at her. Refrained from pulling her into the water. She had to want to come. And pushed off from the edge, flipped like a dolphin, dove down.
When he surfaced, she was nowhere to be seen, only a puddle of white cotton poolside. Then a dark shape, tiny and nimble, glanced against him, sending every hair on his body to pleasant alert. Chaos. She caused chaos.
And he didn't mind, not one bit.
Captured one fleeting foot, a hand easily going around one ankle, then her arm, and then she was there, was just so present, and he was close enough to the pool's edge that he could grasp the lip with the tips of his fingers and pull her to the wall, trap her there. She laughed, and then he did and that felt good. Finally, it felt good.
Her eyes, dark as Sam's, darker, were dancing and he could see her expression was relieved, even as she brought one leg around him at an impossible angle, fit into him like a puzzle piece. Saw all this.
Realized it was too dark to be seeing this, or should be, and then lifted his eyes to the window beyond her shoulder to see the fire that engulfed the third floor of the hotel.
Flames licked from several windows, billowed out like curtains in the breeze. A sound caught in his throat and she turned too.
"That's my room," she whispered, horrified. "Ma chambre. Mon dieu, les autres!"
TBC
a/n: Yep, it's really called Parc Oméga, and it's really pretty much across the street from Chateau Montebello. Last time I was there, the buffalo came right up to the car and looked in, just like here. And I'm still washing the spit off. Damn wapiti. Many thanks to my SIL, for providing me with the Québecois terms for 'upsadaisy' and the 'little cute dog' nickname.
