Disclaimer: I ask and I ask but Kripke still won't give them to me.
A/N: This is the second stand-alone chapter. It's Sam's turn to have the supernatural bite back! One small unimportant reference to chapter 1; you don't need to have read chapter 1 to read this (but you might like chapter 1! g ) Please read and review.
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His mouth felt as if he had swallowed the entire Sahara, his eyes refused to focus, and damned if his hair didn't hurt. At the same time, Sam Winchester realized he was lying on a large and, he had to admit, comfortable bed with several feather pillows (judging from the way he desperately wanted to sneeze).
The ceiling above was dark wood with gilded rosettes, while the walls were stone. In some places, the walls were hung with rich tapestries. The floor seemed to be a dark brown…something that was noticeably uneven. Actually, the floor seemed to coil and rise in piles in some places, which made absolutely no sense.
Okay, let's try sitting up.
It should have been simple enough. Sam had been sitting up by himself for years now. He started to lift his head, only to find it being dragged back down.
What the hell?
This time, ready for the hindrance, he made it to a sitting position. He turned slightly to try to figure out what was pulling at his head, and almost fell over from the shock.
Okay, yes, he liked his hair long, but this was ridiculous. It fell in waves down his back, off the edge of the bed and then wound around and back and forth over the floor like a line for a ride at Disneyland. It hadn't been the floor he had been seeing, but his hair.
He was beginning to get a really bad feeling about this.
Getting off the bed was harder than it looked. He immediately tangled his size 13's in the cascading waves of his hair and ended up face down in a fairly tall pile of the stuff.
Just great. I'm going to suffocate in my own hair!
The only good thing that he could see was that Dean was not here laughing his ass off.
With a groan, Sam pushed himself onto his knees and extricated his feet from the mass of tresses curling across the floor. Muttering under his breath, he stood up, grabbed a handful of hair and pulled it out of his way. He headed for the one window, moving the undulating waves of hair with each step forward. He was pretty sure what he would find when he reached his destination.
Yep. No question. He was in a tower, alright. Sixty feet straight down. No stairs in view, though he could only see this side of the tower. Turning around cautiously, he let his eyes rove over his cell. One room, fairly large, with a bed and a table with a single chair. There was an opening that seemed to lead to just a small closet-sized room.
The in-house outhouse, he suspected.
He sighed. No doubt about it. The only thing missing was the damn dress.
He was fucking Rapunzel.
It must have been an early indication he was losing it, because he could have sworn he heard Dean's voice just then. You only wish you were fucking Rapunzel right now, Sammy. It would be a lot more fun!
Despite how desperately he wanted out of this mess, he realized he was willing to be rescued by anyone--even the damn Demon--except Dean. If Dean ever found out about this, Sam might as well just throw himself into a volcano. It would be a lot more pleasant.
Sam realized suddenly that his stomach was rumbling and he wondered how—or indeed, if—he would be fed. As if on cue, a ball of light appeared at the end of the table where the chair stood and when the glow faded, there was a golden plate filled with something that, he admitted, smelled pretty good, accompanied by silverware that really was silver and a chalice with a pitcher next to it.
Kicking and pulling his hair out of the way—and cursing every step—Sam struggled to the table. It didn't matter that the food was slathered in rich sauce more to Dean's I-am-so-looking-forward-to-my-greasy/fatty-foods-inspired-heart-attack tastes. He was hungry enough not to care if he was consuming a month's worth of fat calories.
As soon as he was finished, everything disappeared, leaving the table bare once again. Sam looked around at the chamber, which was devoid of books, writing materials, TVs, DVDs, CDs, musical instruments, exercise equipment…he realized he was mentally babbling, but endless minutes, hours (days? weeks?) of boredom stretched before him.
What the freaking hell did Rapunzel actually do all day
Glancing down at the mass of hair curling around his feet and the table legs, Sam could see strands—as proof of the Chaos Theory and in the fashion of necklaces back through the ages—already tangling themselves into knots even though he wasn't moving. He sighed. Great. He was supposed to spend twelve hours a day combing his hair?
God, he hated witches! Stupid old crone.
Okay, ugly old crone. The only stupid one had been him. With all the times he had demanded that Dean focus on the job and not on their waitress' décolletage, he had let his concentration –right in the middle of a takedown—lapse over a damn kitten. He realized now it probably belonged to the hag, maybe even her familiar, but then, he was just trying to shoo it out of the line of fire.
Not the literal line of fire. This witch, unlike the Shtriga, was still fully human, just a practitioner of the black arts. They had agreed to try a spell they'd found in the Key of Solomon, designed to strip witches and warlocks of their powers. Dean had been going to do the incantation; for some reason, he always seemed to be more comfortable with Hebrew than with Latin.
Actually, Sam had always believed that what Dean was comfortable with were the matzoh balls and potato latkes Miriam Rabinowitz used to stuff down them when Dad would come to consult with her husband, Rabbi Hiram Rabinowitz, an expert in the Kabbalah and Jewish mysticism. Not that Sam blamed him; you usually couldn't even stand up to walk away from the table after Mrs. Rabinowitz was done with you.
Sam knew going into the hunt that this particular witch concentrated her power in her eyes. So, of course, moron that he was, he heard a footstep behind him while he was kneeling to pick up the kitten and he turned—and looked up. Everything got fuzzy after that—but he damn well remembered her stroking his hair and cackling on about how pretty it was and that there should be more of it—before it all went black.
Then he woke up here.
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Dean just glared at the weeping witch, though inside he was cringing. Crying old women—okay, also crying kids, and crying young women, and crying middle-aged women, and whimpering puppies, and teary-eyed Sammy, and…geez, Dean, isn't that enough, you wuss? He mentally cleared his throat and steeled himself. Before he had stripped her of her powers, she had been one nasty bitch. And she was the only one who knew where Sam was.
"Nothing," she wailed. "You've left me nothing."
"Yeah?" he growled. "Well, if you hadn't been using your powers to screw people up, Sam and I wouldn't have bothered you. So, can the 'woe is me' act!" So much for that "witches and water do not mix" crap. It that were true, she'd be a puddle of goo by now!
He leaned forward, his expression hardening. Sam went for the Puppy Dog Eyes of Power routine; Dean found that the Dean Winchester Glare of Impending Death ™ tended to work better for him. She was definitely trying to get as far back in the chair as her restraints permitted her to do.
"Where's my brother?" he demanded.
She tried to look innocent. "Who? I never saw your brother. I swear."
"Right. I'm certainly going to take the word of someone who's already allied herself with the powers of darkness. You're such a trustworthy bunch! Sam was here and there's no way you could miss him. He's about that high," Dean said, raising a hand over his head. He glanced up at his hand and sighed. A certain innate honesty it would have surprised Sam to find out Dean had made him raise the hand another two inches. Much as it galled him to have to do it. "Puppy eyes. Definitely in need of a haircut."
"Ah, him," she said, conceding defeat. "Yes, I saw him. And I don't think his hair was nearly long enough. But," she added hastily catching Dean's increasingly-dangerous expression, "I have no idea where he is. Truly."
It was time to pull out the big guns. "Listen, hag, I have your kitten." He pulled his hunting knife from the sheath strapped to his belt and twirled it menacingly. "How long do you think it will last?"
She stared at him, horrified. "You wouldn't hurt her! She's just a kitten, and she's all I have." Her voice rose to a wail.
Oh, crap, she's blubbering again! Who the hell knew that agents of evil cried so fucking much! And over a kitten. Maybe Sam and I should add a DVD of "Bambi" to our weapons arsenal.
She didn't say anything else, though, and Dean grimaced. "Alright," he said nastily. "I think I'll just go and have some fun."
He walked out the door, ignoring her wails, strode over to the Impala and opened the back door. Only to have his boot attacked by a furball apparently convinced that the world needed protecting from Dean's shoelaces, since this was the sixth time she had tried to wrestle them into submission. Behind her, the makeshift saucer—the cap from an empty peanut butter jar—had been licked clear of milk. Dean bent and scooped her up. She willingly gave up the battle, concentrating instead on licking his face. He rubbed her under her chin and she purred contentedly.
"You were probably going to end up being a witch's familiar, you know that? Now, you're just going to be some crazy old bat's cat. Trust me; it's an improvement." He settled her in the crook of one arm. "I have to borrow a few hairs. Just think of it as one less hairball you'll have to spit up."
The knife was extremely sharp and he was able to get the hairs off with no difficulty. It left her with one patch that was almost down to bare skin and he felt a little guilty about that, but he knew it would grow back.
He held her up at almost eye-level. "You wouldn't consider giving a yowl or two, would you? It's for a good cause." After careful thought, she decided instead to lick his nose. "Didn't think so." He put her back in the car and closed the door.
Stopping in front of the erstwhile witch, he let the trimmed fur fall from his hand to the ground. "There's still more left, you know," he said conversationally. "It could take some time to do real damage."
"You, you, beast!" she spluttered. "You leave her alone!"
Before she could start crying again, he leaned in and definitely invaded her personal space. "Where. Is. My. Brother?"
She sighed. "There's a tower about an hour's drive out of town."
Dean blinked. "A tower? How did you get him there?'
"It was built by a demon I conjured years ago. The only way in or out is a window at the top. Or a spell. All it takes is the proper incantation and you can transport anyone there. Not," she said indignantly, "that I could do the spell now!"
"Good. Because there was no way I was letting you spell me into the tower. Driving directions will do just fine."
Defeated, she slumped in the chair. "You'll release me before you leave, and give me my kitten?" At his nod, she reeled off the directions, then said, "You might find him a little changed." At Dean's expression, she hastily added, "Not in anyway that's harmful or permanent." She went on to tell him what she had done.
Dean did not stop laughing all the way to the tower.
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Great. Of all the witches in the world, he had to find the one with the warped sense of humor.
Studying the endless coils of hair, he wondered how long it would take for him to braid his hair. Then unbraid. Then start over. Arghh! Winchester, you are losing it. Could this get any worse?
At the precise moment, a deep—and familiar—voice wafted up from well below the window. "Sampunzel, Sampunzel. Let down your not-so-golden hair."
Yep. No question. It could get worse. And it just had.
He struggled his way to the window and looked down. Dean was standing at the base of the tower, smiling up brightly at him. Dean made a "come on down" gesture. Sam stared at his brother. Was Dean seriously suggesting that he jump? Then the light bulb went off.
Dean wanted him to throw down his hair.
For the first time in his life, Sam was one-hundred-ten-percent positive he finally understood why brother's somewhere-in-the-next-galaxy thought processes were the way they were: Mom and Dad had dropped him on his head one time too many when he was an infant.
"Dean, are you crazy?" he roared out the window. "I'm not throwing my hair down for you to climb up! How about using that damn rope you're carrying?"
"Right, Sammy," Dean shouted back. "I'll just run back to the car and get my jetpack. Be up there in a jiffy."
No one did sarcasm quite like his older brother.
On the other hand, there was no way he could let his 4"-shorter-but-still-no-lightweight brother just use his hair as a ladder—and just how ridiculous did that sound?—without having every strand pulled out by the roots. Wait, if he were to tie it around the leg of the table…hm, might work. Which left only the really hard part: finding the damn end of his hair.
"Better take a seat, Dean," he shouted down.
His brother looked up, puzzled, and spread his arms in a "say, what?" gesture.
Sam sighed, envisioning the merriment his next comment would cause. "The floor's piled high with the damn stuff. I can't do anything until I can find the end!"
He had been right, of course. Dean was practically doubled over with laughter. Never before, in a lifetime of wishing his more-than-occasionally-annoying older brother would develop a series of exotic—though not fatal—ailments, had he wanted more to be able to empty a bucket of ice-cold water over Dean's head.
Three hours later, sweating and seriously hoping Dean had run over the damned witch with a steamroller, he found the end. After all of that, he realized he was going to have no choice but to just toss it out the window down to Dean. There was no possible way he could actually tie anything around the leg; he would never be able to pull it through. He sighed and hung his head.
He was just going to have to hope this worked like the fairy tale: Rapunzel still seemed to have a full head of hair after the prince climbed up.
And did I just equate Dean and a prince? I'm going to need serious psychological help after this!
Sam walked back to the window, clutching the end of his hair tightly in one fist. He was damned it would have to hunt for it again. Looking out, he saw his brother lying on the ground 60 feet below, fast asleep.
How the hell, Sam wondered, can you smirk in your sleep? He's probably tiptoeing through the tulips with a pair of buxom wenches.
The bastard.
Unfortunately, there was nothing to throw at his blissfully unaware brother. Except, of course, his hair. He was about to start tossing when he realized that, while he could not tie the stuff around the table leg because he would never be able to actually knot it, he could pass the end around the leg and then be able to brace back once Dean started to climb. And, hopefully, not end up bald. It had been bad enough when he was twelve.
Looping the end around the table leg closest to the window, he walked back to the aperture and glanced down. Dean was still asleep but now grinning broadly; Sam assumed the buxom wenches had totally put out. With a nasty smile, he began to toss the flowing locks out the window.
Dean woke with a yelp, arms windmilling to bat the cascade of hair away and ending up getting entangled. Freeing his arms with a snarl, he glared up at this brother.
Sam smiled beatifically and spread his hands. "Oops."
Sam watched as Dean pulled rough work gloves out of one jacket pocket, then shrug out of the jacket. The whole time, his lips were moving and Sam could just imagine the muttered insults directed his way. He smiled contentedly.
Dean took a grip on the "ladder" and nodded. Sam turned to face the room, which was virtually empty now. For the first time, he could see that the floor was filthy. And his hair had been all over it. Blechhh! Now he was itching for a shower.
He leaned his 6'5" frame backward, hands wrapped in the hair, and called out, "Okay."
A moment later, he was almost pulled off his feet as Dean started to climb. He gritted his teeth and braced his feet. Fifteen minutes later, his muscles were aching, he was pretty sure some roots had been pulled out and he was wondering where the fucking hell his brother was.
"Dean," he yelled, "did you stop to read a book?"
"You think this is easy?" came the snarled and tired-sounding reply—fortunately from fairly close—"It's impossible to get a good grip on this stuff. And there are no toeholds on this tower. I think the damn prince brought his own freaking ladder!"
A few minutes more passed and Sam could now hear Dean's grunts and strained breathing. Finally, Dean's voice floated up from just below the window, "I'm here, Sammy."
Sam turned his head and looked over his shoulder, expecting to see his brother's face. Instead, there was a hand, holding up a small object. Sam squinted, then his eyes widened and his mouth dropped open.
It was Dean's cell phone, top open and, he was sure, with the camera feature on. There was a soft click and the hand, with the phone, disappeared from the window. Two seconds later, Sam heard an enthusiastic, "Yes!" He could almost see the fist pumping the air.
Sam was positive no jury in the world would convict him.
Dean's head now appeared outside the window, eyes in full Bambi-mode and an expression on his face reminiscent of a six-year old who finds tons more presents under the Christmas tree than he expected. Though Sam knew the picture would come back to haunt him down the road—hell, knowing Dean it could end up on a billboard—he found himself fighting a grin and wondering how the same person could be both five and five thousand years old.
Dean grabbed the window ledge and hauled himself into the tower. Sam released his grip and tried to ease his aching muscles, as Dean scooted past him and tied one end of the rope to the table leg. The older man then tossed the other end out the window.
"How did you find me?" Sam asked, rubbing at his neck and shoulders.
Dean shrugged. "Used the spell—it worked perfectly, by the way; we need to really study that book, dude—but the old bat wouldn't talk, so I threatened to slice and dice that kitten of hers."
"Dean!" Sam said aghast.
"I said I threatened to. I didn't harm a hair on the little furball's cute bewhiskered head." Then he frowned and glared at Sam. "Hey, you think I'm some sort of kitten killer? Thanks, Sammy."
Sam pretty much tuned out Dean's indignation, more fascinated by the fact that his older brother had called the kitten "cute"—awww!—and had actually used the word "bewhiskered" in a sentence.
Just when you think you're getting a handle on your brother….
Dean was eyeing him critically. "You can't try to climb down with all that hair hanging out the window; the weight could pull you off the rope. There's no way it's all gonna fit in the Impala, either." Dean grinned. "And I'm pretty sure you don't want anyone seeing you like this."
Well, there was no question about that. It was bad enough Dean knew about it; he had no doubt his brother was already plotting hours of merriment at his expense. He sighed.
"You're right. We'll have to take off the excess."
"No problem," Dean said cheerfully.
Too cheerfully, but Sam's reactions were a few seconds too slow. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of Dean's hunting knife then felt a rush of air as the carefully honed blade snicked past his ears. Sam yelped but had enough presence of mind not to jump, which could have led to a definite Van Gogh moment.
There was a sudden breeze on the back of his neck. And on his ears. He reached up but he knew, with a sinking heart, what he would find.
He had been sheared. His probing fingers duly noted that his hair was now the perfect length. If he were a medieval monk.
"Dean," he hissed. "I said, 'take off the excess'."
His older brother shrugged, an innocent expression on his face. "You didn't say whose version of excess, yours or mine."
Okay, technically, Dean is right. Not that it will save him, the sneaky son-of-a-bitch.
"I'll go first," Dean said. Then he grinned at Sam. "Judging from your expression, if you went first, I wouldn't trust you not to burn the rope before I could get down."
Damn. I'm going to have to work on my poker face!
C'mon, Sammy," Dean said, slipping out the window, "there's a Motel 6 just waiting for us somewhere."
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One more crappy motel room in the road adventures of the Winchester brothers. Sam wondered briefly how well a travelogue entitled "1,001 Motels You Should Definitely Avoid" would sell. He could write it in his sleep. Or perhaps that should be, lack of sleep.
He glanced out the open door. Dean was putting his duffel bag into the trunk of the Impala. A moment later, Sam heard the sound of the trunk lid thudding closed.
Sam placed his laptop into its carrying case and slung it over one shoulder. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the room's mirror and grimaced. It'll grow back.
Long before that happened, though, he would have found a way to get Dean back.
He closed the door behind him, pulling hard, since the door appeared to buy into Newton's little-known Fourth Law of Motion: "A door in the open position will remain in the open position unless you break your wrist slamming it shut."
Sam settled into the shotgun seat. Dean was already seated, tapping an impatient tattoo on the steering wheel.
"I'll be thrilled to leave this town behind," Sam grumbled.
Dean laughed. "Sam, you have to get a sense of humor. Besides, you always told me the girls at Stanford just loved your long, windblown locks. So the witch just loved them a little longer."
"It's not funny, Dean."
"Yeah? You didn't feel the same way when I was freaking Sleeping Beauty—not to mention, fending off a dirty old princess—then it was all 'har, har, har'."
"Har, har, har? What are you, a pirate?"
"Not after seeing that film, Sam. Pirates wear too many ruffles and way too much eyeliner. I think they play for the other team."
Sam grinned. The image of Dean dressed as Captain Jack Sparrow was mind boggling. His improved mood lasted until they reached the end of the parking lot. There, nailed to a telephone pole, was a 2' by 2' blow up of the picture Dean had taken on his phone camera. It was slightly grainy, but definitely clear enough to make out the details: Long flowing brown locks gathered in piles and a deer-caught-in-the-headlights expression. "Have you seen my brother?" was neatly printed on the lower border.
Dean let out a whoop of laughter that only increased when he caught Sam's glare. Refusing to damage his already-bruised dignity any further, Sam just stared straight ahead and fumed silently.
Dean Winchester, Sam snarled silently. Dead man driving.
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A/N: Hope you enjoyed it; please let me know what you thought.