AN: A strange little romp with my take on a popular fanfic trope...but I'm not going to tell you which one!
Season 1, but I'm putting Bobby in because the boys need their bearded, alcoholic Confucius backing them up. Also, I freaking adore Bobby.
WARNINGS:
1) I do not own anything from the Supernatural universe.
2) I may drop a naughty word or two.
3) Weirdness abounds within. Abounds, people.
4) So. Much. Schmoop. Wear your boots.
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Author's foreword:When I was thinking about this story, Dean suddenly showed up in my living room and claimed that this was his story to tell. Well, I'm ashamed to admit that I didn't take it very well for quite a number of reasons. First of all, he is, of course, fictional. Second, he's really, really scary. Third, I was in my polar bear pajamas and not at all at my best (although they are fabulously comfortable pajamas). Fourth, I like to switch up POV pretty much every chapter, mostly going back and forth between the brothers and throwing in an outsider here and there, so I really didn't feel like changing that. And fifth, he'd busted right through my fourth wall, and those suckers are expensive.
Once I stopped screaming and decided that I was unlikely to pee myself, I very meekly asked him what he wanted, and he said that I needed to let him tell this one. He claimed that I owe him because I am always beating up his little brother (which is true), and let me tell you, there was violence implied. Since, I, like Henry Winchester, prefer my adventures to be of a literary nature, I crumbled like a sand castle. And after Dean left, I may have spent time hiding under my bed eating my fear in the form of chocolate chip cookies, but there's no proof of that.
So, with only a few exceptions, this story will be told from Dean's POV. Believe me, I had no choice.
WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER
Philomena Cerridwen Walsh was a terrible witch. It wasn't that she lacked power – just the contrary. She had all of the power her mother Millicent had dreamed for her when she'd given her such a grandiose name. All the power and more, more than Millicent had ever seen. More than their coven had ever seen. She had so much power that Millicent had fled to the New World when Philomena was just four, fearing that the Grand Coven would either take her away or kill her.
They ended up in Hampton, Virginia. Millicent devoted her life to training her daughter, aspirations of becoming a Force to Be Reconned With behind the strength of the Philomena's magic.
Except Philomena was the opposite of The Grand Coven's official description of a witch who wished to be powerful. Their code said: To consolidate power, a witch must be focused, disciplined, and motivated. S/he must consider the ramifications of every spell s/he performs and be prepared to make sacrifices, sometimes literally, as all magic extracts its price.
Philomena was distractable, flighty, and completely without ambition. She performed magic that should have been impossible, and without much apparent effort. She refused to kill or to allow her mother to kill in her presence. At just six years old, she'd laid a hand on Millicent's arm as the latter was about to slice the throat of a rabbit.
"That's not yours." She'd said mildly.
"I trapped the rabbit. It is mine." Millicent had been irritated.
"No, Mother. Its life and the power it holds are not yours."
Millicent had raised her arm to spank the child, frustrated by the contradiction. And frozen. Without moving or speaking, Philomena had frozen a witch with 150 years of experience. The girl calmly freed the rabbit, the Millicent found she could move again.
It would have been terrifying, except that Philomena never acted violently or aggressively. Still, her naivety made her spells dangerous. Once, she'd waved her hands and made hundreds of birds appear on the branches of the trees in the woods. They were red and pink and blue in shades that Millicent had never seen. Philomena had laughed, delighted to watch them for an hour, then forgotten about them.
The strange birds had proved to be vicious, sharp beaks full of sharper teeth, and began to attack and eat so many small animals that Millicent had finally snuck out one night to kill and bury them, lest they turn to bigger game or draw attention to the Walshes.
Many of Philomena's spells were like that, and she was completely unpredictable. She might spend a day or two never leaving her room, appearing to listen to something nobody else could hear, then wander into the forest and come back with something improbable, like a cut diamond, or a sprig of a plant that didn't grow in the New World, or on one memorable occasion, a bear that obeyed her every command. These objects had all had power, were often unstable, and were as likely to cause headaches as be useful. (Though the bear was better than any watchdog.) Nothing in the forest ever attempted to harm her.
Despite everything, Millicent cared for her strange daughter and kept her hidden from those who might suspect witchcraft. But she couldn't hide from the long reach of the Grand Coven forever. Millicent was a gifted witch, and it took 22 years for the coven to find them.
Millicent never knew who had cast the spell that left her choking on her own blood in the middle of Hampton's main street, but her dying thought was pity for them if they took on her daughter.
Philomena felt the death of the only person she'd ever really known, and she was perplexed by the pain and anger she felt.
When the four witches tasked with the search and destroy walked into The Walsh House, they found that Philomena had disabled every ward and defensive spell her mother had put in place. She stood in the center of the house, placidly waiting. They approached slowly, ready to cast a killing curse; leaving the Grand Coven was a mortal offense, no matter how old you were at the time.
Philomena gently waved one hand, her expression impossibly tranquil. Every witch slid smoothly across the floor until they, with her, formed the points of a perfect pentagon. "You killed my mother and invaded her home," she said dreamily, distantly. The witches' terror and struggles didn't seem to register to her. "Your bones and mine will anchor my spell, until the father who is not a father comes." She sighed slowly and softly, as if drawing on all her resources. Then she spoke it Gaelic, making the other witches' terror ratchet up even higher. It was well known that while Latin held power, Gaelic held much more, but was unstable, making it too dangerous for spellwork. But they couldn't so much as utter a sound as she spoke.
"Cha tèid duine asteach a tha ag iarraidh cron ach gheibh an neochiontach sìth an seo."
The witches, still frozen like statues, seemed to melt into the floor." With another long exhale, Philomena raised both hands high above her head, turned her face upward, smiled, and melted into the floor too.
From the outside, the house seemed to shimmer, then slid like water into invisibility. And it stayed that way for 300 years.
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Since my Gaelic is rusty and my grimoire's in the shop, Philomena's spell comes from Google translate. It roughly means: no one who seeks harm may enter but the innocent will find peace here.