Assorted obligatory comments, ratings and warnings: I think the Amber Alert for hetsex can be turned off for this chapter, but watch out for Céline Dion and Sam mutilation. Oh, and the whole thing is awash with obscenities. WIP, this is the second-to-last chapter, so the tension mounts, and the convoluted plot either implodes or expands or clarifies, depending on how drunk you are when you read it (definitely not how drunk I was when I wrote it). I make no profit from this, only reap the vague pleasure of playing with other people's toys while they're not looking.
Who to blame: As usual, the ever-amazing Lemmypie and jmm0001 have accompanied me through this thrashing about with the Winchester boys: Lemmy tells me what's funny, and JM asks every awkward and difficult question known to humankind. They are gifts from above. Hugs to you both.
STF: Following his disturbing dreams of a demon and a buffalo-god, Sam drags Dean and the Impala across the border into Québec, where they encounter Céline Dion performing at a Cirque du Soleil casino extravaganza. Dean has lots of sex with Béatrice, a contortionist; Sam's increasingly violent visions reveal that he must sacrifice himself to the mythological buffalo. Dean is targeted by Etienne, the Cirque clown who also happens to be an ancient Trickster demi-god. Sam discovers that Céline Dion's highest note – combined with ever-escalating blood sacrifices - opens an evil gateway to hell, a talent that her manager and demon-possessed husband, René, is exploiting. After getting clobbered by a falling acrobat, Sam is rushed to Château Montebello, a 4-star hotel on the banks of the Ottawa River, where the Céline camp has temporary headquarters. Dean joins him, and they discover the nearby Parc Oméga, a wild game park with buffalo and the sacrificial tree from Sam's dream. Unbeknownst to Dean, Sam gets an ultimatum from the demon: meet me at the tree, or I'll kill your brother. Sam ignores this warning, wanting to tackle the demon with his brother's help. That night, Dean meets Béatrice at the swimming pool and understands that the Trickster has used them both; as he figures this out, he spots a fire on Sam's floor.
--
He hadn't meant to fall asleep, mostly because he knew Dean wasn't going to stay put. But Sam was too banged up and had stupidly combined painkillers with booze – although that might have been more Dean's design than his own. Despite a demon making threats against his brother, Sam hadn't been able to keep his eyes open.
In any case, he'd had no intention of meeting Réne at the tree – exorcisms were tricky under the best of circumstances, let alone when you were one-handed. No way was he doing it alone, not when his more experienced brother was around. There was no reason. And demons were big fat liars anyway; it could wait till morning, after he'd had a good sleep.
Dean's overactive libido had apparently been counting on that.
A fire alarm combined with the sudden spray of the hotel's sprinkler system jolted Sam awake with more immediacy than the coming of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Disoriented, Sam shook his head, which was an awful idea in light of his earlier encounter with the falling acrobat. Scanned the room: leftovers wilting on the table, sofa bed extended but not used, the duffle bag open, everything getting wet.
From the sprinklers. Which were on because...Sam needed to make a leap here that his battered brain balked at...because of a fire. Where was Dean? Right, nighttime, alone, when a contortionist crooked her finger at him? He knew where Dean was. Down the hall, doing things with a double-jointed circus freak that defied Sam's imagination.
Sam, still fully clothed, ran for the door barefoot. Felt the door first: cool to the touch. The corridor was starting to fill with smoke and he heard screaming from down the hall. He didn't think; he ran, bent over, both because his body was stiff and sore but also because the smoke wasn't quite so bad lower down. Door at the end, cries behind it.
Door hot. Hot, and locked.
He banged on it with his free hand, shouted, "Open the door!"
The doorknob jiggled, and he heard scared sobbing behind it, French words undecipherable. Finally, it opened and a slight girl, delicate as dandelion fluff, fell into Sam's arms, coughing furiously.
Beyond her, the room burst with flames, knocking them both to the ground.
"Chantal!" The girl, bird-light on Sam's chest, turned, face streaked with tears and char, hair smoldering. She was fair and freckled. "Chantal!" she cried again, and tried to get up, tried to get back into the room.
You'd need a flame-retardant suit and oxygen mask to get in there now.
Sam thought to shut the door, prevent the fire from spreading, but something inside the blazing room moved. Not a girl, bigger than that. Wreathed in smoke, glowing as ember glowed, brighter than the fire, which was plenty bright. Moving in a way that no human moved. Human-like though, as though the movements were learned, had been studied.
The smoke eddied and fled and René was suddenly there, eyes black, no expression on the wooden face. The demon lifted his hand and Sam stiffened, ready for – what? What was he ready for? A slow smile crept across the demon's face as it turned its wrist. Looked at its watch. Time. Sam gasped, and more smoke entered his cramped lungs, applied the principles of torque and pressure in a graphic physics lesson.
As Sam's coughing fit subsided, he peered through streaming eyes, but he couldn't see René anywhere, either in the burning room or in the corridor.
With effort, Sam stood, dragging the girl with him, looked around for help. More people crowded the hallway now, running, garbled shouts in French and Lithuanian and Ukrainian, and the Chinese girls darted between them all, dazed as rabbits on a night highway. None of them were Dean, and Sam had to clamp down on the thudding fear rattling his chest like an old pinball machine.
The door across the way opened and the huge Lithuanian bodybuilder, Tadeusz, filled the hallway. Face flushed, half-naked, he stepped towards Sam, a small red-head tucked under one protective arm.
"Chantal?" the girl Sam was supporting queried incredulously. "Tadeusz?" Like she couldn't believe it.
"Béatrice? Où est Béatrice?" The red-head shouted at her, and Sam realized these were Béatrice's roommates.
Sam, holding her elbow tight, pissed off that his left shoulder and arm were still bandaged to his body, started back at the end of the hall, to the room where he'd seen the demon. "Is Béatrice Viau in there?"
The girl shook her head. "À la piscine. She goes to the swimming."
Tadeusz took the blonde from Sam's pained grasp, picked her up as though she were a bag of groceries.
"Come on!" Tadeusz shouted, and Sam followed, hacking.
Sam smelled singed hair, and creosote and ozone as he stumbled down the corridor, down three flights of stairs, the hotel staff already taking control, trying to determine which guests required rescuing, or burial.
The lawn floodlights were on and hotel staff directed people to a mustering station under a covered picnic area some distance from the main building. The floodlights were superfluous; the entire lawn was lit by the fire, which licked out the windows maliciously, not just one window, but several, working its way from room to room as though it was searching for something. Or someone.
Sam knew where the fire had started though, knew why. Béatrice's room, because Sam hadn't come to the tree at the appointed time. A lesson. See what I can do? So predictable, your brother, so easy to find. Maybe the demon knew that Dean hadn't been there, or maybe not. The message was the same.
The lawn was thick with smoke and confusion. Oh, fuck, where was Dean? Demons lie, Sam told himself. They lie, and that demon isn't coming for Dean. A bluff, that's all it was. Felt the fear, deep deep down where it was impossible to acknowledge, instead gripped anger like a weapon, like the hilt of a heavy machete, looked for something to slash apart.
Far away, the sound of sirens ripped the night, then closer, a flutter of lights through the trees, red and blue. First response fire fighters, close local volunteers, guys who managed pet stores and dished out poutine during the day, who became heroes in times of emergency. Further away: the professionals from the larger cities around the tiny hamlet of Montebello. Relief was here and more was coming.
Just not for Sam, who couldn't see Dean anywhere. Anger mounting steadily, he tagged behind Tadeusz and the girls to the first aid area, immediately recognizable because of the provisions: Dion's doctor, an oxygen tank, and a first aid kit that could have easily treated the wounded of a besieged Balkan city.
Beside the doctor, a mask over her hyperventilating face, was the diva herself, clutching a furry purse under her arm. A dog, Sam realized, as a tail wagged excitedly and for no reason at all. Sam nodded to Céline, who snatched at his hand, pulled the mask from her face.
Alien eyes in the equine head, wide with a case of upper-case alarm, which in this instance was somewhat called for. "Do you know where René is? 'ave you seen 'im?" And she was so concerned, her eyes so full of tears and fear, that Sam wanted to slap her, wanted to shake her like a can of spray paint, because he thought maybe she knew. Knew that this was René's doing, was part of the same puzzle as the disappearing girls.
The things people knew and wouldn't admit to themselves, Sam thought, disengaging her hand and shaking his head, trying to put the machete away before he used it. "Sorry. Have you," cleared his throat, which hurt like a bitch, "Have you seen my boss?"
"No. Is 'e wit René?"
I hope fucking not, Sam thought. Céline was near frantic, and the doctor moved in with a bottle of pills, and the singer barely nodded, scarcely noticed as she dumped a handful into her palm, chewed them like Chiclets. Held them out to Sam, who shook his head.
The dog yapped a little, squirming in her arms, and Céline shot to her feet, her expression crumpling as René pushed past Sam, ignoring him completely, wrapped Céline in his embrace, the dog growling Rottweiler-big. René – the demon, though cloaked now – led her away, murmuring French in her ear, and Sam heard sobs of relief amidst the canine growls.
Then René looked back, over his wife's shoulder, and smiled.
Dizziness swept over Sam, threatened to topple him. Bastard, he thought, found himself walking quickly towards the demon, not caring that there were hundreds of people on the lawn now, not caring that a demon could wreak havoc on a crowd like this, because Sam Winchester didn't know where his brother was.
As he came closer to René, Sam swallowed a lump in his throat that might have been terror, embraced the sudden white-hot anger, just jumped into it like it was a deep pool.
Stopped dead in his tracks. The pool. Fuck Dean and fuck his insatiable --
Céline's dog struggled in her arms and jumped, its attention diverted by sudden and rapid movement on the far side of the lawn. Sam followed the little white streak's trajectory, momentarily distracted by its velocity. It scrambled across the lawn, because dogs like that always took on dangerous moving things; they were genetically engineered to win Darwin Awards.
Then relief, as it were, was at hand, because it was Dean sprinting across the grass, bare-chested, shoeless, clutching a t-shirt in one hand, not coming towards the mustering area, not that, but going for the outside staircase door. He looked as though he'd willingly take out any volunteer firefighter clumsy or stupid enough to get in his way.
The fire light was on Dean, and Sam knew what his brother was going to do, was going to head right into an inferno without giving it a second thought, because he saw the look on Dean's face then and hoped like hell it wasn't the very same one he had on his own face, but thought, yeah, it probably was. Rage rammed down the throat of desolate, numbing fear.
Sam drew breath, but his lungs had been scorched and it hurt, or maybe that was just the bruised ribs. No time to wonder which, for there was a disaster to avert: Sam wouldn't put it past his brother to run into a burning building for him.
Let's face it, there was precedent.
Thought that and all the anger just slipped away, was replaced by a love so fierce it burned hot in its own way. Hurt in its own way.
Sam found his smoke-mutilated voice and he shouted his brother's name. It came out a croak, thrashed as a metal band at the end of a long tour, but it was enough and Dean – who had been going fast, had been going so incredibly fast – pulled up like a designated runner stealing second, almost slid to his knees, and then back up again, pivoted direction flawlessly, the little dog yapping at his heels. Dean closed the distance quickly, hair wet, sheeted with water, smelling of chlorine. Came right up to Sam, just stared at him. The whole thing repeated itself on Dean's face like instant replay from the reverse angle: terror, desolation, fear, anger, rage, love. Then, quick, a flash of relief.
"You okay?" Rough around the edges, a little winded.
Sam nodded. One moment, held. Dean finally looked away, pulled his t-shirt over his head, streaking it with dark water.
Then Sam shifted his gaze to Béatrice, also wet, who'd come up behind Dean, eyes searching. "Did they get out?" she whispered, but to Sam. "Annie and Chantal?"
Sam saw it: a gnawing grief borne of knowing that somehow the fire and the earlier deaths were connected to her, and not knowing why, or how to stop any of it. It was possible, Sam thought, that she was innocent. What did Sam know about her anyway? When had he taken the opportunity to do anything but castigate Dean for his poor judgment in this without finding out the first thing about Béatrice Viau?
"Over there," Sam returned quietly, gesturing with his nose to the first aid station. He turned to Dean. "I think we need to talk." Paused, looked carefully at Béatrice.
"Etienne sent her the first night," Dean stated, almost a challenge. "That was the only time." Following Sam's line of thought.
Shit, who can read minds, anyway, Dean? Sam grimaced, half a smile. "Okay," he accepted, gently.
"He's playing us. Etienne." Dean looked at Béatrice as he said this, ran a hand over his hair, rearranging it badly. "All of us. Finds this funny." Because he'd turned his head, Sam could now see the set of Dean's expression, knew what it meant. For Dean. And because of that, ultimately, for himself.
Sam had an appointment with both a demon and a god, and if Dean was determined to go after Etienne, then he wouldn't immediately know what Sam was doing. The fire was a warning, nothing more. The demon had proved his point all right: he'd kill Dean next time, and Sam wasn't going to give him the opportunity. Etienne was the perfect distraction for Dean right now.
"What is he? Ghost? Spirit?" Sam asked, though neither of those felt quite right.
Béatrice was still there, looked hard and able and beyond surprise. "Yeah, because he's not human, whatever he is." She crossed her arms, waited for Dean's response. But she was a half-Lithuanian circus performer who could touch the back of her head to her ass while dangling fifty feet in the air to the songs of Céline Dion – Sam thought not much would freak her out.
Dean shifted his stance. "Trickster." And smiled. It was terrifying. "Big ol' Trickster, Sammy. Should have known it earlier, but they're rare." Shook his head. "Pays to believe in myths, I guess."
A Trickster was great news, on some level. Loki, Whiskey Jack, Monkey – almost every culture had them, demi-gods devoted to chaos and mayhem. A traditional Trickster was only harmful in what it set in motion, would never murder anyone in their sleep. Or beat their brains out against a wall when they got lippy. "What'd we do to attract the attention of that?" Sam asked.
Dean's shoulders lifted and he shivered. "Who knows? You can't kill them. Might be able to outsmart it."
Any other night, this would have been an attraction too potent for Sam's clever mind to resist, a harmful entity that required logic and creativity to dislodge, not sheer force. Sam knew it. Dean knew it.
Sam had a little acting job to do now and when Dean's life was hanging in the balance, he didn't give a shit who he had to lie to, even Dean himself.
"Okay, how do we find Etienne?" he asked carefully and enthusiastically, glanced at Béatrice, whose attention was all on Dean. She hugged her arms to herself, hands tucked under armpits. It was a warm night, but not if you were wet to the bone and wearing the thinnest of cotton shifts.
Dean shook his head. "I find him. It's me he's fucking with, not you."
Sam simulated upset, scowled a little.
He wasn't the only one looking unhappy, though. Béatrice took one step to Dean, stopped. Despite her not being much bigger than your average grade seven student, the look she leveled at Dean was lethal. "He's screwed with me, too, made un chârdemarde. A lot of shit. Antéka. Anyway. I want some fucking answers from that bastard."
Sam might have laughed at the expression on his brother's face. Didn't count on this, did you, Dean? The problem with consorting with spitfires is that you sometimes got burned.
Dean opened his mouth, and Sam predicted what would follow: Too dangerous for you. Don't want you in the middle of this. Better let me handle it.
Instead, "Okay."
Sam's breath came out like a shot, not entirely acting now. "What? She gets to go and I don't?"
Dean didn't quite smile and Sam reckoned that his brother thought that this was payback time. It was, but not quite how Dean was imagining it. "She's right. Béa's lost friends. That was the demon, but Etienne sure as hell didn't stop it, did he? I bet he's known about the demon for a long time." He turned to her, and Sam couldn't see what happened to Dean's eyes, but he heard it in his voice. "Under the stage, that time. Remember? This kind of evil gets hard to ignore."
Shivering, eyes dark with unanswered anger, Béatrice nodded forcefully. "I don't fuck with that. He's too dark. Céline, she thinks he's got a problem, like he could go to a re-hab center or something. I thought Etienne might work for him. And Tadeusz, he got nervous, starting talking about the zubir, about how the zubir would protect us. Crazy fucking Lithuanian lugan."
Dean turned, and his back was to the flames so Sam couldn't see his face. "Etienne's got a lot to answer for, and she has the right to ask the questions."
Sam nodded, saw the sense of it. Back when all this had started, he'd dreamed of a girl on the ceiling, burning. Neither Béatrice nor Dean needed to be a sacrifice tonight; Sam would take care of that. He didn't like it, didn't really want to take on the demon by himself, but the concept of choice was in short supply. "Okay, then."
"You'll stay here?" Dean asked, and Sam knew this is where his acting would have to be at its best. Sam had no intention of staying here; he had an appointment at the tree, five stanzas of memorized Latin to recite, and a buffalo to save.
He was almost sure he was supposed to save the zubir. Almost.
For once, Dean didn't wait for an answer, and Sam hoped fervently that Dean wouldn't regret that lapse, later. If things went well, Sam would be there and back, the demon exorcised, and the zubir saved, all before Dean even found Etienne.
Tricksters, Sam knew, didn't usually hang around after they'd been exposed. Sam suspected that Etienne was long gone. Luckily, Dean wasn't in the habit of reading mythology texts, usually gleaned his information from their father's journal and old episodes of Night Stalker.
"Looks like they've got it under control," Dean said, turning to where a fire truck was hosing the building, smoke rising gray into the night. Kept turning to the contortionist, and Sam realized that it wasn't pool water on her face, but tears. Watched as Dean took her under his arm, pulled her close. Not a challenge to Sam; it had nothing to do with Sam.
He kept thinking about that, even after they'd gone. Thought about it as he took a few minutes to quietly rip off the bandage that bound his arm and shoulder, unwound the bindings, shoulder sore, tendons needing more healing than they'd now get. Still, better than trying to do this one-handed. He borrowed a pair of sneakers from the hotel's night manager and disappeared down the darkened road to Parc Oméga.
--
This was the worst kind of fucking thing for him to deal with. Werewolves, fine. The occasional skinwalker, ghosts of numerous persuasion and variety – no problem. Black Dogs? Hell, any day of the week. Poltergeists? Like taking out the trash, man.
Dean had never heard of anyone who'd even pretended to know how to handle a Trickster. Shit, he'd never heard of anyone who'd actually met one. So what did he, with his self-proclaimed shoot-first, ask-questions-later philosophy, know about them? Well, for starters, he knew that they didn't like to be exposed. Second, they usually got defeated by a taste of their own medicine. You didn't kill the fuckers, you just shooed them away, leaving them to wreak havoc on the next poor asshole that wandered into their sights. The ultimate NIMBY supernatural foe.
So having two pissed off people to call Etienne out was better than one. And anyone could see that Sam wasn't up to it, was bruised like a banana at the bottom of a gorilla cage, was dopey with painkillers. Best he get a rest, since tomorrow they'd have to deal with a fucking demon. Exorcisms were two-man jobs, since demons were squirmy fuckers requiring a lot of Latin verse, the precise use of which usually precluded exercising a lot of muscle. Exorcising a demon, in Dean's opinion, would demand his physicality and Sam's level-headed intelligence. The perfect team.
He smiled grimly, knew that it was a smile that scared babies.
He'd left his boxers poolside, jumped into his jeans from dripping wet. Going commando, they chafed. He let these small physical annoyances fuel his anger, hazarded a glance to Béa, whose face was set like porcelain, still with fury. Man, he would not want to be Etienne now.
His spirits were bolstered by one remembered story about Whiskey Jack. Must have heard it when they'd spent those three months in North Dakota on the reserve, when John had recuperated on the trailer's spongy bed, halfway between death and a drunken coma, had returned to his young sons so mangled by a shapeshifter he'd made Sam scream with terror.
The native kids had pushed Dean around at school, though he'd hardly been the type that had taken bullying very well. Eventually, just in time for John to pull up roots and start the engine again, Dean had made a couple of friends.
Between Coyote and Whiskey Jack, the rez kids usually had a clear favorite: whoever swung the biggest dick. Elias, a loose-jointed rodeo rider a year older than Dean, had gleefully told him the best story: when, one by one, Whiskey Jack had posed as the husband of every woman in a medicine man's family, only to have his cock trapped while inside the medicine man's beautiful virgin daughter, who had a snatch like a steel trap. Whiskey Jack had then been roundly beaten by all the women, from oldest crone to budding girl. Even a couple of the boys, Elias had said with a broad wink. Elias had laughed and laughed, probably at the pole axed expression on Dean's face. So if all else failed? A shit-kicking was always a valid last resort.
A beating or a talking to, either required that they find the asshole and Dean didn't really know where to start. Béa, shivering, huddled against him and Dean pulled her closer, could feel her ribcage frail against him, only bone and a covering a skin. Not much to her, in some ways. Then looked at her, the tufted hair and dark eyes, gleam of collarbone as she twisted her head to him. Dean was just wondering what he might be able to salvage from this evening other than a head cold, when she said, "He has one of the cabins down by the river." And either Etienne would be there and Dean would beat him senseless, or he wouldn't be and they'd have a cabin to themselves.
And that settled that.
--
The fence was meant for keeping family wagons and mini-vans out, not for barring a determined young man with an unreasonably vast knowledge of lock mechanisms, and a body to make a cat envy. Sam had the main gate's lock undone in twenty seconds. He ran past the dark ticket booths and slipped sideways between the inadequate gate and post that separated the wapiti from the fallow deer. Breathing still raw, he slowed, trotted down the dirt road that they'd driven earlier that day. The wolf pens were to his left; he could see one gray shape follow his progress along the fence and the hair on the back of his neck rose in response. The gray shadow stopped at the far fence, observed him as he crested the hill.
The moon wasn't full, wouldn't be for another week or so, but it still cast enough light that the buffalo pasture looked like an old Technicolor movie's night scenes, filmed during the day and hand-darkened in the editing booth. The forest was ominous and shifted around him though the night was windless. His lungs were soggy and impaired, dirty sponges moldering in the laundry room sink. He couldn't see any buffalo, only light gray grass and black forest and the darkness beyond the cliff's edge.
And the tree of course.
It was dark against the plain, stark and melancholy and so much more than a dead tree in the middle of field had any right to be, sad as an unvisited senior sitting on an old age home's porch. Not quite, maybe, for another dark moving gray shadow, too big to be a wolf, moved under its branches and the tree was not a sad abandoned shell, but rather the hard remains of something too stubborn to actually die.
Sam made no attempt to disguise his approach; his approach was the point. He wanted to be seen.
The exorcism he had in mind was blessedly quick, no long passages interspersed with liturgical hymns or the sprinkling of holy water. They'd always been so excessive with that as kids, throwing it around as though they were in a playground water fight. Sam smiled tightly, imagining Dean facing a gaggle of lesser demons with a pump-action Super Soaker full of holy water.
Shit, he was nervous, now that it came to it.
Glanced back at the forest, now a few hundred yards behind him, up the hill. No buffalo, not that he could see, but he felt a vague presence, an interest. In the time it took him to turn back, he realized that René hadn't come alone.
No fair, he thought.
Hand clutched in her husband's, the diva of the four-octave range stood meekly, head bent to the grasses at her feet, swaying gently as though she were a bobble-headed version of herself on a massive dashboard. A handful of pills to calm her, Sam remembered, steeling himself.
He didn't need much time for his Latin, but he'd have to be actually touching René for it to have an affect, so he needed to come a whole lot closer than he was now. And Céline, knowingly or not, could reach that high unpleasant note more quickly than Sam could reel off five ancient stanzas of a dead language.
But what was really unfair, Sam thought, was the fact that René had a gun trained on him.
--
The absurdity of knocking wasn't lost on Dean. Hello, could I please come in to kick your ass? Still, lamplight streamed through the window by the door, someone obviously home, and Dean wasn't sure that Etienne wouldn't just let them in, if only to toy with them some more.
Impatiently, Béa knocked again, actually got in front of Dean before he could open his mouth in protest or pull her back. "Hey," he said, but the look she gave him then silenced him in a way few things could. By the time they heard steps, Dean made his peace with the fact that Béa was more pissed off than he was and that you didn't want to get in her way when she was mad.
Etienne didn't have time to say much either, not before Béa slammed open the door and slapped him soundly across the face. The door rebounded off the wall and came back to knock Etienne hard on the shoulder.
He didn't look remotely surprised, which was the first thing that pissed Dean off.
The second thing was the smile, of course. "Come in!" the Trickster said, as though he'd invited them over, which was the third thing.
"Fuck you," Dean replied, walking in and slamming the door shut. Stood a moment, getting his bearings, wishing for a saltgun, though he doubted it would inflict much damage, though even a little damage would be sufficient and there was nothing like pulling a trigger to blow off some steam. "Missed you at the fire."
Etienne wasn't looking at him, he was watching Béa, which further enraged Dean. Stop it, he wants you to get mad. Took a long calming breath that made him think of those stupid yoga shows you sometimes caught on early morning television. Thinking of yoga at a time like this made him even more angry. Pushing buttons, this one's an expert. Watch yourself, Winchester.
"So nice to see the two of you together again." Etienne held up a half-empty bottle of red wine, raised his eyebrows suggestively.
Béa was having none of it. "You knew what would happen," she challenged.
Etienne poured himself a glass, turned it in his hand. "I never know what's going to happen. What would be the fun in that?"
"Why us?" Dean asked. "Why'd you pick us?"
The Trickster moved to the sitting area of the faux-rustic cabin, all Stickley furniture and fat beeswax candles, ornamental swords mounted over a river-rock fireplace. Etienne sat in an enormous chair, shaking his head. "I didn't pick you. Though you're interesting. Maybe next time."
Baffling Trickster double-speak.
"Ben wéyon don." Béa shot back, then glanced at Dean, having slipped into French. Apologetic. Hard to concentrate in another language when you were furious. "I don't believe it. You gave the flower to Dean. You told me to find him."
"You didn't have a nice time?" Etienne feigned concern, spread the fingers of one hand. "I am often misunderstood. I gave him a flower, told you to follow it." He shrugged. "The rest was up to you. It had the intended results."
As she spoke, though, Dean was turning over what he was saying. What he wasn't saying. "We were just tools. Means to an end."
And Etienne's eyes narrowed, assessing Dean. A shiver ran over him, though the room was warm. The Trickster set down the glass, stood. "You are always a means to an end."
"Tricksters only want chaos. Since when do they plot?" Tricksters were essentially unreasonable creatures, like three-year-olds with cunning. "It was to get to Sam, not me." Béa was by the fireplace; if Dean made a move against Etienne, she was well out of the way.
Etienne shrugged. "You know a lot about what I do," but it came out soft and sarcastic. Antagonistic, a mosquito of a man. Not a man. Man-like.
"I find my own trouble," Dean said. "I don't need your shit."
Etienne started to pace the room, but his face wasn't as playful as before. "No, you've got a lot of shit without my help, that's true. Béatrice, do you think I murdered your friends?"
She stood quietly for a moment, considering the Trickster in much the same way she would a car salesman. After a minute, she shrugged. "No."
Etienne turned to Dean, a body's length away. "Think, Dean Winchester." The room suddenly went dark as the single lamp flickered out. Might have been a loss of power due to the fire, but Dean didn't think so.
Despite the disorienting dark, he didn't flinch, didn't move, could still see Etienne's outline in front of him. "You work for the demon," he tried.
Etienne chuckled, unamused. In the sudden hush, he seemed insubstantial, only voice and vague menace. "I work for myself."
"But, a demon..." Béa whispered, turned to Dean, who could only see the white blur of her face. "He's fucking with the demon, not us."
Again, the dance of movement that Dean associated with a shrug. A laugh. And now he was fairly sure the Trickster was only partly there, was half shadow and air. "Sadlairasah. Looks that way."
Like the Cheshire Cat, the last thing Dean saw of Etienne Marcoux, Trickster, was his smile, gleaming white in the night. "And you should be wondering, right about now, where your brother is, Dean Winchester."
And with that, not so much as a goodbye, the Trickster vanished and the light came back on. Dean stared at Béa, and she at him, and he knew they wore almost identical expressions of astonishment. Except that Dean's expression was slowly changing to something else, which was fear. Because he was taking the Trickster's advice and was indeed wondering, right about then, where Sam was.
--
Thank god Céline kept her mouth shut.
Though all the demon really needed was the gun to render Sam pliable, didn't need the big debilitating note. The demon was saving that for something else.
Sam knew it wasn't going to kill him, not yet. Not when it could tie him to the tree and cut delicate lengths of skin from his body to hang from the low branches. Not when Sam's young skin was needed to call the zubir, which was – in turn – the largest of offerings to make to dark fucking powers.
All dark, like, Sam added to himself, thinking of his brother and wishing desperately for his presence. Couldn't take that much further, because Dean being here meant Dean dead, and Sam wasn't going to wish for that. The demon needed Sam, but it would shoot Dean without hesitation before he got within fifty feet of the tree.
C'mon, lay some hands on me, Sam thought. Gotta surprise for you, asshole.
As though wary of just that, the demon directed Céline to tie Sam to the tree, which had the one possible advantage that Céline Dion was no fucking boy scout that knew her way around knots.
With the gun muzzle resting against the nape of his neck, Sam was pushed face-first against the rough bark. The rope went around the tree and around his neck. Around his wrists and his waist and threaded through the belt loop on his jeans. Something he could get out of in a minute or two with only rope burns to show for it.
Oh, Jesus, and Sam knew what was coming next, because he had always been the one kid who'd paid attention during museum field trips and he wasn't out of the habit as an adult. That fucking tree display at the Museum of Civilization had been pretty specific and the demon had a knife in addition to a gun. It didn't take a genius to figure out what was going to happen next. What he was hoping for was enough contact during the process of getting the skin flayed from his back that he'd been able to work the exorcism.
The demon slit Sam's t-shirt from neck to hem, and at the first light touch, Sam started chanting, Latin slipping easily from his tongue, not rusty when it was so desperately needed. One thing Dean had always said about Sam, even within his earshot: Sammy's good in the clutch, Dad. Got to the fourth stanza before the demon took the first strip of skin from Sam's back.
He had to stop. Grace under pressure, yeah, but come on. He couldn't even think with a sharp knife sliding from shoulder blade to mid-back. Once, then twice. Couldn't speak, could only scream, 'cause that? That hurt.
Sam sagged against the ropes, weeping, air whistling through a torso burning front and back, scraped from the rough bark into shreds on the chest, running with blood on the back, pooling at the waistband. Took a breath, tried to find the Latin, tried to find some comfort in it, knew what was being summoned and for what purpose. Heard the demon laughing.
"No need, boy. Your magic has no effect on me." Some movement to Sam's right, by the nearest branch and he swallowed bile as he saw the demon's hand dripping with blood, hanging a thin strip of Sam's own skin over a dead twig. Sam rested his forehead against the bark. A demon would lie. This would work, he had to believe that.
Started the Latin again, but the demon knew the pace of it, almost let Sam get to the end before taking his fingers away, removing another slice of skin. Playing with him. Does it count, Sam wondered, all around him red, does it count as having contact if he's handling my skin? Or does my flesh cease to be me, once it's parted from my body?
Gagged, thinking about this. He hadn't known he was able to make the noises he was now making. Three strips of skin, hanging. What was the magic number? Three was good; shit, three was a magic number, wasn't it? But four. Four seemed to be it, because after that the demon stopped.
And Sam felt the shift in the air temperature, felt it drop and drop and drop and smelled, above the ferric odor of his own blood, the scent of wild and old. Though it was an effort, more even than the Latin, Sam turned his head to see dark shapes on the plains behind the tree.
The zubir had come.
--
Really, there was only one place Sam could be: with the buffalo. No other place was that dangerous and that potent, and Sam had fucking told him, hadn't he? Had showed him graphically what he intended to do, earlier this afternoon at Parc Oméga.
Dean wasn't a complete idiot, he knew the Trickster had its own reasons for setting that bait. But it seemed that the Trickster was playing havoc with a demon, using the Winchester brothers to confuse and confound it. Dean hoped that's what was going on, because if Etienne was sending him on a fool's errand to the middle of a game park at midnight, well, Dean could easily name at least fifteen different ways he was going to fuck Etienne up.
Could contemplate it, but would never be able to do it, actually, because the Trickster was gone and wasn't coming back.
This time, Dean wasn't entertaining the notion of bringing Béa with him, no matter how mad she got. This was Sam they were talking about, and once it was Sam, Dean was through talking.
He parked her at the hotel's mustering station, told Tadeusz to look after her. Dean wanted to find out everything the strongman knew about the zubir, or whatever crackpot god the Lithuanians had conjured up to protect them against a demon, but Dean had just officially run out of time for research.
Sam, Tadeusz explained unasked, had borrowed some shoes and gone that way. Pointing down the road, and the only question Dean considered then was whether or not he could ram the Impala through Parc Oméga's gates.
Don't need to, he decided, once in front of the gates, noticing that they were unlocked. Sam had done that and it was all the evidence Dean required. He drove the car as far as the wapiti enclosure, ignored the obvious joke playing in the back of his mind about impalas in game parks. The lock on this gate was on a timed alarm, too complicated to figure out in the dark and when he was in a hurry. He couldn't be far now, anyway.
The gaps in the railing, while too small for wapiti, were plenty big enough for him. From the trunk, he unpacked a spare pair of boots, a knife, the salt rifle and the Glock. Extra ammunition, just in case.
He followed the dirt road, rifle dangling from one hand, but didn't see anything. Came to a fork in the road. Was the buffalo meadow on the other side of the bear pen? Shit, why hadn't he bothered to even look at the map? He knew, though. Because he always followed his nose, was the one who took the leap of faith. Their father alternated between identifying this tendency as either lazy or stupid. But Sam? Sam reasoned things out, Sam studied the map. Had fewer bruises and scars to show for it.
Fuckitfuckitfuckit. Stood in the middle of the road, between the big sign that said Ours and Loups, little pictographs of lethal animals, arrows pointing in divergent directions.
Hard to say whether the scream he heard then was helpful or not. Helpful, perhaps, in the way that it indicated a general direction to proceed. No so much that the general direction was as the crow flies, and Dean's crow was about to make a beeline through the wolf enclosure. And screw whatever his father would have said about that, 'cause he wasn't here, now, was he?
So be it, Dean thought, ignoring the Danger and Attention signs, which he could easily read in both English and French, because any hunter worth his salt knows when he's being told to kiss his ass goodbye, no matter the language.
The fence wasn't electrified, but it was high. He was fine with high, though, and he almost wished something would come after him, because his worry was cutting a fine line in him, was slicing like a blade of razor wire, and Dean just wanted to kill something.
He moved easily through the underbrush, silently, listening to the far screams, sweat trickling down to the small of his back as he realized it was Sam, it was Sam screaming and his brother had a goddamn miraculous tolerance for pain and didn't scream easily.
Wolves were all around him; he didn't see them, but he felt their presence. Normally, and despite recent experiences with a particularly nasty possessed dog, Dean didn't ascribe human qualities to animals. They were animals, not people. If he thought they had emotions, consciousness, he'd be eating tofu, wouldn't he?
Still, the not-quite-seen gray shapes gliding around him felt uneasy, felt eager and excited and ready to run. In the dark, they were wild and old and Dean recognized them on some elemental level, felt something in himself respond to that. Evil was gathering up ahead, and they were all being drawn to it. Dean moved faster, told himself it was the screaming and that might have been true.
Got to the final gate, and this one was electrified and he put down his rifle. The moonlight made finding the wire easy, and Dean only got a minor shock as he disconnected it.
He turned just in time for the wolf to hit him square in the chest. He slammed against the ground with force, the air exploding from his lungs and he thought, this is fucking it, as the wolf growled and he felt hot meaty breath against his face.
Then another scream, close enough that Dean knew he could make it in time, if only this fucking mutt would get off him – except he couldn't breathe properly, the muscles in his chest having just gone on vacation.
Slow wheeze – and the wolf jumped from him, collided with the gate, escaped through it, followed by three others, wild yellow glow in their eyes, maddened by the smell of blood perhaps, or the proximity of evil. Ran towards another of Sam's screams and Dean rolled to his knees, breath suddenly coming, ah shit, fuck, dragging oxygen in painful gasps.
Dean staggered to his feet, kicked the gate, picked up the rifle – and ran after them.
--
The red eyes glowed as the zubir moved slowly to the front of the herd, and the cold coming from it was welcome because it eased the fire on Sam's back, numbed his cramping fingers. He wiggled them a little, felt the ropes slide, maybe on his own blood. Behind him, he heard René murmur to his wife, for all the world sounding just like a concerned husband.
The zubir had come, but not for its sacrifice; it might justly lay claim to the bloodied flesh that hung from the tree, but the summoner wasn't seeking to appease the zubir. The summoner was seeking to kill the zubir.
Sam didn't doubt that his life was part of it, though he didn't know the sequence, like he'd ended up in a big dance number with no one showing him the steps. The zubir was close, the smell of it dizzying.
Then Céline began to sing.
Sam almost laughed, wanted to know if she took requests, but the demon also started to chant then, and it wasn't Latin, or French, but some other language, harsh and metallic as raven-talk. Céline was running through a series of tonal pitches, each one designed to unlock, for Sam knew puzzles ancient and modern, from cultures local and far. He appreciated how they worked, recognized the methodical sequencing going on behind him, even as he began to slide down the tree trunk, further shredding his chest, his shaking arms and legs no longer able to bear his weight.
Slumped against the tree roots, he negotiated a tortuous turn, tried to get an arm under him to lever his weight to his knees, the rope falling in coils around him. The demon stood several yards to Sam's left, back to the cliff, facing the woods and the herd. Beside him, the singer, her shoulder enveloped by the demon's large hand. Her eyes were closed as she started to reach higher with the note.
Sam didn't think he could take that. Couldn't take that fucking note.
The zubir faced Sam, was ignoring the demon altogether. Sam raised his head and their eyes locked. What do you want of me? But he knew. The zubir had been summoned by his flesh, and that's what was required. All of it.
The note went up again and there, triangulated between all three, demon, sacrifice, and zubir, a swirling blackness opened, beckoning. Sam leaned forward across his knees and emptied his stomach on the grass, sickness overwhelming him.
The zubir shifted, eyes rolling, large nostrils flaring wide.
And behind them, coming from the trees, Sam heard the wolf-cry. It matched Céline's note, fell into it, and the entire herd shifted, started to move.
Sam looked at the demon, and it was smiling, but not looking at Sam, looking at the zubir. The demon had the gun in its hand, raised it, took a step towards the god, barrel aimed precisely between the animal's eyes.
Run, Sam thought helplessly, though that was merely a different kind of death for the zubir. Re-thought it, changed his mind. "No!" he shouted, struggling to his feet against the black vortex, against the spun note, against the sudden urge to just run from danger, no matter the cost. "You're stronger than this," he whispered, coming one step closer to the zubir. He fell to his knees again, unable to stand. "Please."
There's a cliff, he wanted to say, but didn't know how to explain to a god why a cliff was dangerous. An abstract notion for a buffalo, flying.
One gray streak, far to Sam's left, maybe three hundred yards, low to the ground and the entire herd started to trot uneasily around the tree, parting like a dark river around a big rock. Sam dared to look at the demon, who kept the gun trained on the zubir.
And then the zubir bellowed. That was the only word for it, and Sam shuddered with fear. Fear and relief. The herd shivered as a whole, but stopped. Stopped at that sound, unchanged through the millenia.
Beside Sam, a low chuckle. "You will submit," the demon breathed quietly to the zubir. "In one manner or another." And fired.
The shot rang out with another bellow, this one so fierce that Sam held a hand to his head. At least it stopped the singing. Céline stumbled to a halt, quivering like the herd. If she took one step forward, she'd drop into the black gaping hell maw.
The herd moved again, responding to the shot, to the gathering wolves, fear kicked up like the dust from their hooves. All around Sam, now, moving dark shapes, fearful in the night.
The zubir still stood, eyes now red as blood, shook its head back and forth at the demon, raining blood as it did so, but it still stood. It was so cold that the shaking grass grew brittle under Sam's fingers and the blood on his back cooled and began to form ice crystals.
Nearby, close enough that Sam could see moonlit feral eye-glow, a pair of gray wolves hunkered down beside the tree, drawn by the blood maybe, or the buffalo, or the demon. Low moans came from the buffalo cows and their calves, secreted in the middle of the shivering, moving herd. The buffalo, crazed with blood and wolf and evil, turned around the tree, came back, confused, circling. Enclosing them.
The zubir lowered its head, meaning to charge. The demon drew back the gun's hammer once again, preparing to shoot.
This was the weirdest Mexican stand-off Sam had ever seen.
The zubir took one step, then another. Towards the black hole that, for all Sam knew, led straight to Hell, eternal brimstone and agony, no backdoor to limbo or purgatory or some other dreamt-of antechamber, but straight to fucking Damnation.
One step, and the demon smiled. Another and the zubir turned its head to Sam, snorted. Close enough to touch. The business end of a blowtorch, Sam remembered, felt the dream's flame licking at him, knowing it would hurt. And did it anyway, reached out, fingers of his hand shaking. A bare inch away from the zubir, an audience of wolves, buffalo, and a multi-platinum recording star to witness, and streams of electricity arced between Sam and the zubir, fed each other, went from Sam to zubir, right into the hellmouth's rotating axis.
Reversed the turn.
The zubir snorted again, shook its head and roared, felling the demon as though it were a rotten-cored tree. René collapsed, and Sam saw the rich malevolent smoke, closer to a snake than anything other than a serpent was, pour from René's contorted mouth in an agonized, endless scream. It swirled ominously, the demon in its non-corporeal form, and then it was dragged into the reverse-vortex of the hellmouth, disappearing completely.
Between one second and the next, the Gates of Hell closed up without a sound.
When it was over, Sam slumped onto his hands and knees, slashed t-shirt hanging in shreds, slick with streaming blood, gasping and so sore he hardly knew where to begin his inventory of hurt. Céline swayed again, blinked suddenly, shook like a retriever coming out of a lake. Shrieked as she realized that she was in a strange plain at night, surrounded by stampeding wild buffalo and wolves, coolly observed by a flayed man bleeding into the night, her husband laying like a corpse at her feet.
And Sam was spared his pain-filled cataloguing efforts by one thing. The cold.
The zubir leveled a stare at Sam, was only a foot away now, heavy and old and in need. All around darkness, and dust, and buffalo-noise and wild smell. Above that, Sam heard his name being called, but it was so far away, was beyond the circling buffalo, he barely registered it. Aw, Dean, man, sorry.
He swallowed; it wasn't over just because the demon was gone. It was over when the zubir was appeased, because it had been properly summoned and it was a power without precedence. Who was Sam to deny it?
It was true, was all true, and so Sam shoved himself from the tree once more, came as far as his knees, hurt and bloody and raw in every sense of the word. But there, and willing to be so. He smelled the wild and the old and he closed his eyes.
Though it went against everything he was, which was why they called it sacrifice, he let go. He didn't try to understand. He submitted.
--
TBC
a/n: Wow, long freakin' chapter. But had to get y'all to this point. So I could leave you hanging while I go camping. Sorry about that. Last chapter soon...c'mon, you know you want your final dose of diva nuttiness.
