AN: Well, the muse is wearing all black, composing bad poetry, and listening to Billie Eilish, which means we're definitely in for more angsty emoting. How we got from her drinking fruity cocktails on the beach and writing about irreverent old ladies to this, I have no idea. When I try to get her back on track, she screams that I don't understand her and locks herself in her room. So unless someone else can get through to her (Lena? Oh, wait, she killed your character off) we're in for it. Again.
C'est comme ca.
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Dean drummed his fingers on his knee and considered temptation. The letter that Letty had left had thrown Sam for a hell of a loop. And then Sam had simply shoved it down and acted like everything was fine. It was something Sam had started after Stanford...but even more since Hell.
Dean really missed the blurter who word vomited everything to Dean. The open book. It was a lot easier to diagnose the angst of the day when it was presented on a silver platter, often before Dean even asked. Not that there was any doubt where Sam had learned reticence. It was a family trait that he hadn't inherited, but had learned well.
Dean's eyes flicked back to Sam's coat, which was hanging over a chair. Sam had never told him that the letter was private or said that he didn't want Dean to read it. He'd said it was stupid and stuffed it in his pocket. But he hadn't offered to let Dean read it either.
Dean hadn't asked. Because once he heard no, he could no longer claim ignorance. He wondered if Sam would buy it if Dean claimed it had fallen out of the pocket? And that he'd...accidentally...read the entire thing.
He really, really wanted to know what that damn letter said. How could he help Sam when he didn't know exactly what he was helping him with? Dean snorted a little at himself. He knew what Sam would say. Something asinine.
You can't protect me from everything, Dean maybe. Or, even dumber, you don't have to protect me any more. He wouldn't remind Dean that he'd survived years at Stanford -- they no longer threw that in each other's faces. He wouldn't point out that Dean had let him die at Cold Oak and then abandoned him for four months to be manipulated and turned into a demon blood junkie. And he certainly wouldn't bring up the facts that Dean couldn't protect him from the pit or getting his soul torn away.
Sam would never say it, but Dean would think it all. And if he told Sam he wanted to help so badly because of all the times he'd screwed up so spectacularly, Sam would get all mushy and hand the letter over. But emotional blackmail wasn't really Dean's style, especially when it involved trotting out the world's most horrific blooper reel.
So...to snoop or not to snoop? That was the question. Is it nobler in purpose to bear the slings and arrows of outraged little brother, or --
And the door opened before Dean could decide or admit that he had some Shakespeare quotes rattling around in his brain.
Sam handed over a nice, big coffee that smelled heavenly. Sam might be the only one who admitted an addiction to the overpriced brew from the shop next door, but in the privacy of his own mind, Dean had to concede it was damn fine coffee.
"You ready?" asked Sam after chugging what had to be half of his own coffee. The weirdo would drink any iteration of the stuff, but he preferred it face of the sun hot and somehow never seemed to burn his mouth.
Why do I know that but not what's bugging you? Dean wondered. Instinct told him it was more than just emo brooding about Letty's death and Kay's loneliness, but then instinct left to take a powder without giving Dean any more clues. Effing instinct. Aloud, Dean said, "was just waitin' on you, Mr. Caffeine Addict."
Sam didn't even bother to roll his eyes at that one. They were both still extra tired from their inquest thingie, and the coffee might be very necessary for the little two hour drive to the location Kay had provided. It was just after 9pm, and they were ready to bug out and gank themselves a god of discord. Dean for one was really looking forward to it.
It will require at least three impalements with iron weapons, though the weapons don't need to stay in the wounds, Kay had written. Then take his head, cover him with iron filings and burn his head and body separately. He will try to turn you against each other. Don't listen. And if you get a chance, give him my regards.
Dean understood the sentiment. He was half surprised Kay didn't stab the asshole herself. Of course, she was probably out of her head with grief. Dean knew how he'd felt when...yeah, so not going there.
Dean started a little when Sam turned on the cassette player in Baby. He'd been zoning out as he'd been driving and hadn't even turned any music on. He ignored the side eye from Sam because he probably thought Dean was brooding. Which he wasn't.
"When did you finally grow good taste in music?" asked Dean over the opening bars of AC/DC's For Those About to Rock, We Salute You.
"I just hit play," argued Sam, because arguing came as naturally as breathing. "Just want to make sure you stay awake."
"Hell, yeah, I'm awake. I'm looking forward to ganking this bastard."
"Me too," responded Sam darkly enough that it was now Dean giving him the side eye.
"I can't believe what those old chicks had to do to trap him."
"What they did to save us," corrected Mr. Contrary. Dean nodded. He'd never forget it. Coolest old broads ever.
"You got what you needed?" While Dean had tracked down some more iron weapons, Sam had restocked the first aid kit and picked up a few special items.
Sam nodded and fished them out of his pocket to offer one pair to Dean. The conversation died after that, Dean trying not to think too much about the letter and Sam thinking hard too. At least they weren't at odds. And hey, it was definitely nice to have an emo brooder next to him instead of a soulless bastard. The thought cheered Dean up and he began to tap out a drum solo on the steering wheel with his thumbs. The Winchester Brothers ride again, ganking one monster at a time.
The next hour was mostly silent except for a soundtrack of AC/DC, then Def Leppard.
The area grew more and more remote until they found themselves parked atop a barren, rocky promontory looking down at a windswept beach.
"Are you sure this is the right place?" asked Sam, vainly trying to keep his hair from blowing into his eyes.
Dean looked over the edge of the short cliff and was startled into a laugh. "Oh, yeah. This is it." A man stood directly below them. White stones were arranged near him to form a large arrow pointing to him and spelling out the word DICK. If that didn't scream Kay and Letty, Dean didn't know what would.
It didn't take long for Sam and Dean to make their way down to the blonde man leaning against the rocks. Since he hadn't lifted his shoulders from the side of the cliff as long as they could see him, Dean guessed he was somehow pinned there. Complex runes peeked up from behind his back and gave credence to the theory.
The man appeared to be in his twenties and was dressed in sharply creased khakis. He should have been handsome but there was something a tiny bit off about him, like he was a computer generated image of a perfect human. Dean was pretty sure he didn't even have pores.
The too-perfect face looked at them with a friendly, open expression like he was hoping for help. His eyes touched on the armory each of the men carried and the expression twisted. He opened his mouth and snarled something at them and Dean sent a grim smile toward Sam. The ear plugs had been a good idea. Try to spread your discord when we can't hear a word you say, dickwad, thought Dean.
Even though he couldn't hear his own voice, Dean just had to say, "we heard there was a pouty little dick here, and it turns out, there is! Signs pointing you out and everything."
If Eshu had been scowling before, now his face contorted into a truly angry and petulant expression. He was yelling, but Dean was done with waiting. He let fly a weighted dagger, but Eshu waved a hand and it flew off course. He stomped his foot and the ground beneath them trembled, sending Dean forward and Sam backward.
But all of that was okay. Dean had no problem getting hands on. He let his momentum help propel him at Eshu even as Sam's gun barked four times. Bullets wouldn't kill the deity, but it was a good distraction and each knocked him back into the rock as they struck his chest. They didn't bleed, but made black wounds visible through the tears they'd put in Eshu's pansy white button down.
Dean only had time to think, nice grouping, Sammy before he reached his quarry.
Eshu's arms came up to grab Dean, but the hunter was already ducking under his grasp. He stabbed an iron stiletto at Eshu's stomach. The man twisted impossibly fast and the knife went into his bicep instead, hard enough to pass through and strike the stone.
Good enough for impalement number one.
Eshu roared so loudly Dean could hear him through the ear plugs. He also pulled away from the wall and Dean winced to realize that the end of the stiletto had scratched out one of the colorful symbols. Then Eshu spun Dean around and slammed his back into the rock face. The blade hanging out of arm and the blood pouring down his arm didn't seem to impair him.
They fought for position for a moment. Dean raised his left hand to reach one of the weapons he still wore, but Eshu grabbed his wrist and pinned it against the wall with inhuman strength. He stared intently into Dean's eyes. It was oddly, uncomfortably intimate with his body pinning Dean's.
"Really...startin'...to piss..." Dean started, straining to get free. His words drained away and he stilled as rage poured through him.
Specifically, rage at Sam. At the kid who never knew when to shut up and listen. Who defied Dad until the day the man died. Who ran off to go to school abandon Dean for a yuppie life. Who turned himself into a monster to...
Dean's eyes fell on Sam's face, also suffused in fury. Except, Sam was furious at Eshu, for hurting Dean. The rage drained out of Dean.
Those weren't his feelings. He was proud of Sam, and knew that while he'd made some huge mistakes, he had Dean's back. And actually, he was currently swinging a tire iron at Eshu's back like he was trying to hit a homerun.
Eshu jerked forward from the blow and turned with a snarl to catch the iron in midair as it descended for another strike. One handed, he tossed the implement and the Winchester holding it off to the side.
That was...kind of impressive, given Sam's size, not to mention strength. Dean shouted his brother's name but couldn't see how he landed around Eshu's shoulders.
The latter stared at Dean, then at Sam. His lips sneered like a socialite who'd stepped in dog shit. He formed one word Dean could easily read.
Ibeji.
Eshu's eyes lit with an unholy glee. He stepped back half a step, still holding Dean with one hand. He didn't seem to notice Dean emptying a clip into his chest. Eshu plowed a fist like granite into Dean's gut.
Not like granite. Like a freaking Mac truck. Dean would have fallen except for the asshole holding him up. He wasn't sure how he managed to suck in a breath, but when did, he noticed that Sam was on his knees, curled over his stomach like he'd been one who'd been hit. Apparently, Eshu could hit one of them and hurt both.
Well, shit. That was an unfortunate wrinkle. Dean thought, followed immediately by, I have to get away before Sam gets hurt because I went head to head with Ivan Drago.
Eshu was laughing in Dean's face. He didn't even stop when Dean pistol whipped him hard enough to push his jaw sideways. Eshu backhanded the Sam blur that was coming at his back again, and the blow snapped Dean's head to the side hard enough to knock out one of the earplugs and send blood pouring from his nose.
But he'd stepped back far enough that Dean could finally reach the really cool, vintage long knife he'd scored. Almost without even looking, he knew the exact second Sam was back. Dean drove the knife straight through Eshu's side at the same time Sam threw all his weight behind the tire iron, sending it bursting through Eshu's chest to scrape against the rock and send blood across Dean's shoulder.
Holy shit, Sammy. A little stress to work out? thought Dean with reluctant admiration.
Eshu dropped like an unstrung puppet and lay, whining and writhing on the ground. Dean slumped against the rock, looking at Sam, who had slapped a hand against the wall to hold himself up and had a swollen nose and blooming purple eye to match what Dean felt on his own face.
Having looked each other over, at least briefly, the brothers pushed up to stand over Eshu. Dean drew his machete with some relish as Sam stepped back and reloaded his gun to cover him.
Eshu stilled from trying to pull the knife from his arm as Dean stepped toward him. "Failed protector," the wounded deity hissed and Dean froze. The words seemed to sink into his brain in the way that the artificial anger from Eshu never had. "You left him to demons. You let him die. Go to Hell "
It was all true. Dean knew it. Knew Sam had to hate him for his failures. Had to...
There was another voice. Dean couldn't make out the words, but it didn't matter. He remembered that voice. Remembered another time when he'd almost lost himself. That voice next to him had anchored him then. It had whispered over and over, We're okay. It's not real. We're okay. It's not real.
The actual words it was speaking now filtered in over the accusations of failure. "...let go..."
Though bowed under the weight of his own screw ups, Dean let his fingers relax. Someone -- no, Sam -- carefully took the machete from Dean's hand and raised it above his head.
Eshu screamed in negation and his hold on Dean broke like a swollen water balloon.
Dean bared his teeth at the bleeding deity. "Regards from Yemoja and Oshun, asswipe."
The machete swung and Eshu's head rolled.
Sam bent over and leaned his hands on his knees, bloody machete dangling from one hand. Just looking at the bruises blooming on him reminded Dean that he'd gone mano a mano with a freaking god. And ow.
"What a pile of shit," concluded Dean, scowling down at the body. "So, Sam...why a tire iron and not a knife or something?"
"Because it's dull, you twit. It will hurt more," quoted Sam with a horrendous British accent. He began to laugh and dropped the machete to cradle his ribs.
"You're a moron," said Dean, but he laughed too. And it hurt. But it was worth it.
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AN: Hey, look! We got some violence after all. Is it weird that that makes me happy? Guess the muse was in a good mood after all...probably because BruisedBloodyBroken was nice to her.
The Shakespeare Dean is (mis)quoting is Hamlet's to be or not to be soliloquy.
Ivan Drago was a blonde boxer antagonist in one of the Rocky movies.
Sam quotes the late, great Alan Rickman in Robin Hood, Prince of Thieves.
Kathy: I'm glad you liked the schmoop in chapter 6! Yes, I'll do a scene at Bobby's. It wasn't in my initial plan, but you aren't the first one to ask. How can I say no?
Lena: Whew! Glad you're still talking to me after I killed your character! I didn't intend to...but it was very heroic, no? I'm reaching, I realize. I cackled at your comment about the guys coming out of the shower. So drool worthy! BTW, this story is my own so there to the SPN writers who spent 15 years showing us how Sam couldn't live without each other then were like, just kidding. I doubt I'll ever be able to watch that barn scene again. *sniff, sniff*
Timelady66: Oh, nice reference with Anna Karenina! As for the letter, stay tuned. You been talking to my muse, hm? *g*
Scealai: What an idea...is it okay if I say we'll see? Hmmmmm...
Colby's girl: Yay! I'm thrilled you like the ladies. I hope you're still enjoying the story!
MaddyWinchester2000: I know! Every time I write about one of the boy's insecurities I just want to climb into the story and shake them! Thank you so much for such a lovely comment.
sfaulkenberry: I wanted Sam and Dean to have some agency in the connection between them. Like, it feels like it means more if they played a role in building it instead of just being victims of circumstance. I have no idea if that makes sense to anyone but me though! lol So...did you enjoy the violence? Er...action? *g*
BruisedBloodyBroken: My muse appreciates the vote of confidence! What do you think about my depiction of Eshu? I see him as kind of a spoiled, irresponsible brat.
Shazza19: I love the old ladies and was sad about poor Letty. Thanks for reading!!
muffinroo: That is such a lovely, wonderful comment! So, can my writing be like parfait instead of onions? (That's a Shrek shout out. :) No, seriously, I appreciate what you have to say.
Jenjoremy: Oh, how I wish I knew someone who could draw that for us! There are many times I wish I had that gift. And is it weird that I'm excited that you're reading?