Title: The Firefighter, The Witch and The Closet
Author: Silverkit
Part: 4 of 5
Pairings: None
Rating: PG-13 (language)
Summary: Dean's apple pie life was going along quite nicely until a man stole his brother.
Spoilers: Through Nightmare in Season one
Author's Note: First off, many, many thanks to my dear beta reader Michelle who is an amazing person. Also, thanks to everyone who has read, reviewed and enjoyed this story so far Every comment you have submitted has been fantastic, and every theory has got me thinking. Enjoy!
Chapter 4- Dean Winchester, Demon Hunter Extraordinaire
Dean had never exactly needed confirmation, but he would always considered this the official moment when he knew that Sam was the biggest geek boy to ever grace the planet no matter what universe he was in.
Narnia? For Christ sake.
Flipping on his turn signal, Dean carefully steered the car around one of the icier curves in the road.
Sam's laugh had made it harder to not see this kid as his Sam, and he'd had to fight the urge to deliver a playful punch to the younger man's shoulder. For two seconds it had been Sam in the passenger seat. Healthy (if freaked out), laughing (if terrified), even taking digs at him. It was all Sam, and that was a dangerous thought because he didn't know this kid, not really. He didn't know how this Sam and Dean Winchester had missed being pulled into the life of hunting, didn't know if their mother was still alive or whether or not Jess had met any sort of horrible fate in this place. Suddenly, he was hungry for information.
Dean shot the still snickering Sam a curious look. It was a bad idea. The questions he had would come back to bite him in the ass, he just knew it. The firefighter in the backseat was still glaring daggers at him, and Dean caught the badly hidden twists and movements that came from his escape attempt.
Dad taught me to tie better knots than that, dude.
Still, it was a long ride back to Lawrence, and while he was extremely curious about the goings on in this place he was beginning to notice another, stronger, emotion surfacing. Suspicion.
"Soooo," Dean said drawing the word out. "Sammy, what's your mom like?"
Sam seemed taken back at the quick change in subject. "What?"
"Why the hell would you want to know about our mom?" asked a growl from the backseat.
"Just trying to make conversation," Dean said airily. "So how about it, Sam? Your mom, what does she do?"
Sam's eyes darted from Dean to his brother before answering. "Question for a question?"
"Sam!" came a hissing voice from the back.
"Calm down back there, big brother," Dean said.
Too curious for your own good, Sammy he thought.
"Alright, you have a deal."
"A bakery," Sam said. "She works for a bakery."
"Really?" Dean asked, trying to remember if his own mother had gotten any delight out of the culinary arts.
"Yeah," Sam licked his lips. "She's their accountant. She's really good with numbers."
Dean grinned. "No shit."
"What about your mom?" Sam asked hesitantly.
Dean blew a puff of air out of his nostrils that came out as a cloud of cold air. He stared hard at the road.
Biting you in the ass already.
"She's dead. Died in a fire when I was four."
"I'm sorry."
"Not your fault, Sam," Dean said firmly. "Your dad. What's he do?"
"He's a mechanic. Owns half of the garage he works at."
Dean nodded. "Does he have a partner? A guy named Louis?"
"Yeah. Is your dad dead too?"
"No," Dean said. The windshield was beginning to fog up, and he turned up the heater. "You a student Sam?"
"Don't you want to know what I do?" The firefighter grumbled from the backseat.
"I know what you do, dumb ass," Dean smirked. "Bet the ladies love the uniform. So Sam, student? Yay or nay?"
"I'm a student," Sam said. "At Stanford."
"You must love it there," Dean said. The snow had started up again, and he flipped on the windshield wipers. "Fun, sun, pretty girls. Maybe a girlfriend?
Sam squirmed in his seat. "Yeah."
"What's her name?"
"Libby." Sam paused. "Do you have a brother?"
"Yes."
"Where is he?"
Dean's fingers squeezed the Impala's steering wheel, his knuckles going white under the grip. "He's with a friend."
Sam was studying his expression with a careful kind of intensity his own Sam usually saved for complicated Latin translations. "What's his name?"
"You got your question already," Dean said.
"You went two in a row, now it's my turn."
Dean snorted. "Fine, smart ass. Samuel Michael Winchester. That's his full name."
"Our names are almost identical," Sam said with surprise.
"Almost?" Dean asked. "What's your name?"
"My middle name is Thomas," Sam explained, his breath now making visible puffs of cold air. "What about you. Do you have a name?"
"Of course I have a name. Why would I not have a name?" Dean asked testily. "It's Dean Fredrick Winchester."
There was a snort from the back. "Fredrick?"
"What the hell is your middle name, fire boy?" Dean asked, scowling.
"Christopher."
Identical green eyes glared at each other through the use of the rear view mirror. The back window was icing over, and Dean frowned at the heater as if scolding it.
"Are you human?" Sam asked bring Dean's attention back to the road and the young man next to him.
"100 percent."
Sam blinked. "But you're so fast. You beat up Dean! How are you so strong?"
"He got a few lucky punches," the firefighter grumbled.
Grinning, Dean eased the car around one of the tighter curves on the road. "Well, thank you kindly, but it's not your turn, and I prefer not to discuss my chosen profession with strangers."
The silence that suddenly filled the Impala was enough to make Dean swallow the words he wanted to use next. He almost didn't want to know.
"Do you have dreams, Sam? Dreams that sometimes come true?"
Sam's brow wrinkled in confusion. "What? No. I don't think so."
Dean looked hard at the image of his face that wasn't his face in the mirror. "Don't lie."
"I'm not lying," Sam insisted, the confusion still evident in his voice. "I have regular dreams."
"You're sure," Dean pressed. His foot hovered over the gas and the car slowed down from the lack of pressure. "You can say, "yes." Don't be afraid to say, "yes." I'll believe you."
Sam shook his head, his long bangs swinging. "No. Never."
Slowly, Dean pressed his foot against the accelerator until the car was back to a normal speed. Clearing his throat, he drove one handed for a moment, running his other hand through his short hair. It was then that he saw the ice forming in the corner of the windshield. Squinting, Dean leaned over the wheel to get a better look. The ice began to move then, spreading swiftly across the rest of the glass until Dean was unable to get a clear view of the road.
"What happened?" Sam asked.
A tall figure sailed out of the steering wheel, slamming Dean's answer out of his chest, and causing him to hit the breaks for the second time that night. The Impala fishtailed, and Dean was pushed back into the seat by the extra weight, pinned by a white hand that pressed painfully into each of his shoulders.
"Thief," a voice hissed into his ear, a cold gust of wind sliding through the now unmoving car as the temperature dropped.
It was a woman, or at least it had the general outline of a woman. Her skin was bone white, and cold to the touch. Long white hair draped down her shoulders floating about her head, falling into her round face and momentarily hiding her almond shaped eyes.
"Pay for what you took," she hissed leaning in close. Dean could see her neat even white teeth, and the icy lashes that framed her dark eyes.
Dean shrugged. "Sure. Do you want cash or credit?"
She hissed in response, arching her back before lifting her head, and displaying her neat even claws. Turning, she faced Sam who shrank away.
"Hey!" Dean shouted. "Ok, alright? I'll pay. What do you want?"
A lock of white hair floated under Dean's nose, tickling him. She regarded him thoughtfully for a moment.
"Outside," her voice finally whispered, her body already fading with a blast of another chilling wind. "We'll bargain."
"What the hell was that?" Dean heard his firefighting counterpart choke out as the last of the woman disappeared.
"Question and answer time is officially over," Dean said trying to rub the chill from his arms. "Stay in the car."
She was waiting for him in the middle of the road, her body caught in the yellow glow of the Impala's headlights. Dean started forward, the hilt of his knife warming in his palm, when his arms were suddenly thrown spread eagle. The knife stayed clutched in his hand, but his fingers felt as though they had been sewn to his palm. His toes pointed up, and he was dragged forward, the heels of his boots scraping across the pavement. He came to a stop in front of the woman, and she laid her palm against Dean's jacket, her expression unreadable.
"Thieves are not welcome in my home," she told him calmly.
"I didn't take anything that belonged to anyone," Dean said firmly.
The pale hand patted Dean's jacket, leaving an icy hand print behind, and the woman titled her head.
"You consider those yours?" Dean asked with a raised eyebrow. "Seriously?"
The woman shrugged. "Yes, and you have killed them. I cannot bring them back. What do you offer for their deaths?"
"Deaths?" Dean said. "Oh, come on lady. You've got to be kidding me."
"What do you offer for them?" she asked again.
"I don't suppose it will help my case if I tell you I need them for a good cause?"
The woman paused. "Explain."
Dean frowned. "I need them for my brother."
"You lie," the woman said, motioning towards the car. "He has no use for them."
"That is not my little brother," Dean growled out. His arms were beginning to cramp.
"You lie again."
"No, my little brother is-he's back home. That guy is the other Dean's little brother. The guy that's in the backseat."
"He is brother to both of you," the woman said simply. "You are brother to them. You share the same blood." Her head titled in the direction of the Impala. "Will you trade this brother for payment? I would accept that as a fair bargain."
The snow was melting in Dean's hair, and destroying the small pockets of warmth he'd made before getting out of the car. "No."
His toes snapped to kiss the ground and he almost fell forward.
"What will you give me?" the white woman asked again once Dean had regained his balance.
The cold was making his nose run, and Dean absentmindedly whipped it with the sleeve of his jacket.
"What do you want?"
"An apology," she started.
The words "I'm sorry" fell out of Dean's mouth. They seem to land in the space that was still between him and the woman, and she smiled a little.
"A good beginning," she said. "Now for the ending."
"I don't have to kiss you or anything, do I?" Dean asked. "Not that you're not a lovely example of really pale womanhood; I just like my women to be a little less floaty."
The woman laughed, a sound that reminded Dean of cracking icicles and snow crunching under his boots in the winter.
"You would taste far too warm," she answered. "You do not tempt me."
"Oh," Dean said. "Really?"
The witch laid her hand across the leather of Dean's jacket, and his entire body shivered at the contact.
"There are seeds here," she said. "Plant them. Let them grow, but do not use them. Their life will make up for their parent's death."
The wind caught the woman's white hair, and it snaked around her head and shoulders, never once blocking her face. "Do you agree to the bargain?"
"Yeah," Dean said. "We have a deal."
Dean watched as the woman's body seemed to break and shift until there was nothing left but small falling pieces of white. The word "Good" was left behind like a pale echo.
Slipping the knife back into his coat, Dean walked back to the Impala.
"So," Dean asked ignoring the white faced Sam that sat next to him, and the near panic in the face that watched him from the backseat. "Anyone got a music preference?"
Despite having the heater on at full blast, and a piece of tattered blanket tapped over the window, all three of the Impala's passengers were shivering by the time they pulled in front of the firehouse, and Sam's lips were colored a light shade of blue.
Dean ruffled the younger man's hair, which got him a cry of protest from the Dean in the backseat that he ignored. "I'm real sorry Sam, but you helped me and a couple other people out tonight, and I mean that." He paused. "Please don't be traumatized from this."
Sam's mouth opened and then shut with a snap. "Sure," he finally said.
He left Sam in the car with the heater running, but after cutting away the rope around big brother's feet, Dean hauled him into the cold. Pushing him against the side of the car, he placed a hand on either side of his shoulders and inspected his handy work.
"This where I get my apology?" The firefighter asked with a smirk, anger still burning in his eyes. "I mean, you did mess with a whole lot of my things. That blanket that you shredded. It was like an old buddy to me. And then there are the bullet holes in my car. Let me tell you, I love this car, but my mom worships it. After I tell her what you did to it, well, if you see a blond woman with a shot gun headed your way any time soon I'd suggest you duck or run for cover or-"
"Shut up," Dean said, calmly.
Ignoring the bait, Dean let go of the other man. Fishing around in his coat pockets he produced a pen and a scrap of paper. Hastily scribbling across the white surface he folded it twice and shoved it into the other man's breast pocket.
"Listen to me," Dean said. "If your brother starts having strange dreams, and they come true, if he starts talking about fires and seeing people on ceilings, if he starts seeing things that other people aren't, if he starts- if he does anything that hits a nine on your weird-shit-meter you follow the instructions I wrote down on that paper, and you come get me. Do you understand?"
"No," the firefighter admitted.
"Good," Dean said.
Dean slipped a knife out of the pocket of his jeans, and made quick work of the rope around the other man's hands. He pressed the knife into the firefighter's shaking fingers when he'd finished, and headed for the firehouse doors.
"Cut your brother loose," he called over his shoulder. "And don't throw that thing at me."
A comfortable heat surrounded him the minute he entered the station. The garage was empty, but he could make out a round faced black man, an Asian woman and several cops through a small window that must have led to an office. Sneaking by them and up the stairs, Dean made his way to the kitchen, and then to the closet door.
Standing in the darkness, Dean patted the pocket that had been sewn into the inside of his coat years ago. As his fingers wrapped around the brown paper bulge that he had stored there, some of the knots in his stomach loosened. Heading for the back of the closet he pushed several jars of spaghetti sauce out of the way until he could press his hand against the warm brick wall the shelf had been pushed against. Three sharp words said in a language that sounded harsh enough to be German, but that Dean knew had been used far before the creation of that language, and the world began to tilt.
He landed on his side, falling through a cluster of warm winter jackets that had been tucked away, and onto the hard wooden floor. One of them, large and made of some kind of fur, fell on top of him and he grumbled slightly as he pushed it off. Already he could feel the sticky spring heat settling around his skin and warming away the cold winter chill he'd just escaped from.
Untangling himself from the coats, he climbed to his feet and pushed the closet door open. Pastor Jim was waiting for him on the other side, his hand resting on a fevered Sam's forehead.
Seeing Dean, the older man stood, his hand remaining in contact with the younger Winchester.
"How is he?" Dean asked crossing the room eyes on his too pale brother.
"Did you get it," Pastor Jim asked, the bags under his eyes dark in the dim light. The sun was rising.
Dean reached into his coat. Retrieving the bag, he pressed it into the other man's hands.
"Yeah. No sweat."