CHAPTER FOUR:

THE DEAL

Slowly, Dean pulled on his jeans, hissing at every jostle. His injuries made simple tasks like trying on clothing very difficult, his movement stymied by the stretch of the fragile skin. As soon as he was dressed, he limped through the bathroom door and out of the hospital room. His father called his name repeatedly and for the first time in his existence, he ignored him. He made his way to the hospital elevator and watched in defiance as the metal doors slid to a close, shutting out his father who had run up.

John soon caught up with him at the Impala as he was gathering weapons from her trunk. "Dean, we need to talk."

"What's to talk about?" He opened a bag and began piling in books and some of his favorite guns.

"Son, stop!" John grabbed the bag from his hand. Reluctantly, Dean gave him his attention. "Look, I'm not going to stop you. You're old enough to make your decisions, but going off half-cocked is only going to make things worse. This is not the way."

"No, there's a way. There's always a way! We just have to find it."

"It won't –"

"How do you know?" Dean hissed. "You're always gone. You don't know even half of what he's been through, what I've been through. This is not how it ends. Why are you like this? Aren't you going to do anything?"

"What can we do, Dean, without pissing off some big bad who will come back around and kill us all?" John bellowed in return. "Sam wouldn't want you risking your life to save his. I'm already losing one son. Don't make me lose you too."

"You're a selfish bastard, you know that! This is not just happening to you. He's my responsibility! It's my job to look after him."

"Dean, you're not the one killing him. You have to know that."

"I know!" Dean covered his mouth, looking away. "I'm…I'm not giving up. I'll find something. You can't stop me," he took the bag from John's hands and closed the lid of the trunk. "Keys." He demanded, holding out his hand.

John passed them over, half in contempt and hope.

"I need you to stay with him, please," Dean pleaded. "We can't leave him alone, not even for a minute," he opened the driver's door. "I'm coming back."

John said nothing as his beloved Baby on Wheels roared to life and he sped off leaving his father in the parking lot.

Back at the house, he quickly found his Dad's journal, thumbed through the contents and wrote down every contact listed. The next few hours flew by as he called every number using the landline. Some answered, most didn't. He left various messages asking for any information that could help. Some suggested faith healers. He called the few numbers they gave – all but one said no. The problem was she needed Sam to come to her and that wasn't an option. As the hours dwindled by and he came up with no viable option, the penumbra of despair began to set in.

Frustrated, he threw the journal across the room. Taking a few deep breaths, he went to pick it up and perhaps leave for the library. The book fell open to a page with a drawing of a potted herbal plant, the name "Belladonna" listed beneath in his dad's cursive. He took another look. He remembered seeing that plant before…just recently.

Suddenly an idea struck him like an electric bolt…and he knew where he was going next.

Dean's feet barely hit the front stoop when the door swung open and the woman he met earlier stepped out. She was now wearing a long, black robe, a gold chain around her waist, dark eyes, and the red pendant around her neck pulsing with an orange glow.

In a strong voice, she said, "Figured I'd see you back here. So…you've come to kill me?"

Her eyes glinted with a lilac ray and Dean knew he had to choose his words carefully, though he was momentarily stunned.

"I knew you were hunters when you showed here the other day. I could smell the stench of your sins on you," she leaned against the doorjamb, smiling tauntingly. "Well, come on then…have a go!"

"Actually…" Dean swallowed the hard lump in his throat. "I…uh…I need your help."

She stared at him caustically, gauging; most likely telepathically doing a cat-scan of his body and mind. He opened his jacket and felt around his waist and pockets showing her he had no weapons, nor trinkets, and was seriously there on desperate terms. It took a few minutes, but she eventually relented and invited him inside. The interior was different than he had remembered. Maybe the lighting was different and there was a fragrance of spice and juniper. It looked darker, more elegant in the soft candlelight, not as homely as it was before.

"My name is Glenda," the witch announced. The retort was at the edge of his tongue. Before he could utter a single word, she sneered, "You make a Wizard of Oz reference, I'll rip out your wretched tongue."

His lips carefully snapped shut. Affirmative, she can read minds! The witch stood five feet apart – for her protection, he was sure – still watchful of his every move. He didn't dare twitch. Too much was at stake.

"Am I to assume you're here for your brother, yes?"

Dean bit his lip and dropped his gaze to the floor, intent to conceal his desperation. "He's…um –"

"Dying…I know," Glenda responded stoically. "I sensed it the other day. I understand it's tragic, but you shouldn't concern yourself with such matters boy. The natural order is beyond either of our control."

He shook his head defiantly. "I don't care about any natural order. I can't lose him."

"Not surprising you'd say that. Nature doesn't care about your selfish need. You're still an infant in the eyes of time. You haven't experienced the true magnitude of grief a whole life can contain," she continued. "With time, you will. It'll be hard. Just know it's perfectly natural to feel this way, Dean."

The young hunter was now on edge, surprised. "How do you know my name?"

"I know many things." She went over to a cabinet by the stairs, pulled out a bottle of sherry, and poured herself a small glass. Taking a sip, she peered at him icily over the rim of the cup. It gave him a slight shiver.

Finished with her beverage, she said, "I'll give you this advice only once. There are many things we have no control over. We are mere specks of dust in the eyes of our creator –"

"Don't give me a freakin' Kansas song!" Dean snapped. "Help me, please! Don't make me get down on my knees and beg!"

"And what makes you think I have any power to do this? Is it simply because I'm a witch – though I prefer to call myself a self-sufficient alchemist – or is it because you'd much rather work with me than the Devil himself?"

"No," Dean began, "I'm …just…looking for any solution. I don't care what the cost is."

"Hmm…many people in your shoes say that. They don't fully understand its meaning until it is too late, and in the end, the reality is much worse, the cost far greater than their initial understanding."

The fibers of Dean's patience began to splinter off. He willed himself to stay a little longer, hopefully a little more prodding and she'll help him. "I get what you're saying, I do. But I won't quit…not on this…not until I've turned over every stone and crossed every bridge. Even if it means trading my life for his, I'll do it."

Glenda's face tightened, her dark eyes squinting. "I can see your stubbornness has no boundaries, and I suppose you will not give up in your quest until you've hit every wall possible. Very well…" she sighed. "Look, I may have something that could help your brother's ailment."

Dean held his breath, non-blinking, hoping against hope that some bit of fortune will come his way.

"Since you both were so sweet the other day in not sending a hunter after me, I'll trade you for it. It's an elixir, a recipe made several hundred years ago. It may eradicate his illness, cleanse his body so to speak."

"Oh my god…thank you!"

"But," she said darkly, "understand it may not be one-hundred percent effective. It won't work if he dies. I can't bring people back from the dead."

"We'll take our chances. We're losing anyway. Where is it?"

"Not so fast. I said I'll trade it. It comes at a price."

Dean huffed, irritated. "Of course it does. What are the terms?"

"There's a sacred cup I've been itching to get my hands for some time now. It's in a hard to get to place, in a museum a couple hours away. However, the entity who placed it there issued a shielding charm so my kind cannot pass through…but you can."

"Let me guess," Dean mouthed off, his temper besting him. "It's got some hoodoo magic for you to curse some poor bastard?"

In a flash, Glenda raised her fist, an electric charge sparking upwards, and Dean then found his body suspended in the air. He steeled his resolve and glowered. "I won't help you kill anyone."

She bared her teeth and scoffed. "It's not for that," she lowered her fist and Dean dropped to the floor like an unwanted sack. "Not all of my kin are evil, you know. I don't kill. I don't hex – unless it's for my own protection. That's the problem with you hunters. All you ever see is black. No light. Just darkness in everything you meet."

Dean allowed her a moment to compose herself. There wasn't much else to do.

"Without this relic, I can't create the elixir. Your brother doesn't have much time left," she said. "Are you going to do this or not?"

Closing his eyes, ashamed, he responded, "What do I need to do?"

Antsy, John found himself in a routine with first, straightening out Sam's blankets, secondly, watching the fluctuating numbers on the monitor, and thirdly, checking to see if the tube inserted into his son's throat was done properly. On any other moment, he would find himself reciting memories of Mary to Sam. It was regrettable that Sam didn't have a chance to know his mother, have a chance to see what she looked like – apart from the pictures – or have him tell his son the best parts of his former life. A small hope in that Sam could hear the stories he shared kept him going.

Upon the next inspection of Sam's blankets, John noticed his arm was cool – icy – to the touch. Intrigued, he touched his cheek, noting the same temperature. He unfurled the blanket and felt his leg, also chilled. He left the room for the nurse's station. At reception sat a young black woman. She was polite and asked him if he needed anything.

"My son, in room 402, is really cold," he informed her. "Can we get a warming pad or something to rise his temperature a little bit?"

The nurse typed in the room number on the computer, pulling up the patients file. She looked regretful, understanding this was a terminally ill patient, and said calmly, "What he's experiencing is normal. His body is beginning to shut down. He's in the final stages now."

"I don't care what stage he's in," John spat. "Help me find something to warm him up." He stormed away returning to the room. He sat back in his chair, his face falling into his hands. "Come on Dean," he whispered. "Come on son. Find something please."

This is sooooo stupid! Dean thought as he waited in the Impala outside the museum.

The locale was a local Art museum two hours away dedicated to the housing and education of classical relics. This sacred object Glenda, the Witch of the North, so called "needed" was located in the Byzantium wing. There were multiple wings dedicated to the Classical Greek, Babylonian, and Egyptian periods. The target was a bronze chalice that supposedly belonged to an Assyrian priest. As the legend goes, it is said to have been coated with his blood when he was possessed by their god, Assur. Glenda would not answer his questions about what sort of power it contained except only where to find it and that it would curse him when touched.

Part of his routine on the hunts with his father was to stake out the area, understand the variables, and make plans A through C for execution. This was no different…except now he wasn't there to hunt down some ghost. He waited until morning when the museum had opened. Wearing a baseball cap, he visited the place, noting all the exits, the security guards, their routine, and the location of the exhibits….along with their mystery object. He found the item was no bigger than a coffee cup. Easy to stow in his pocket.

He went to the library and used his useful computer skills to find the blueprints of the security office, the camera room, mapping where all the cameras in the museum were located. Plan A and B were made. Plan C he would have to improvise. Now he needed to wait until night when the crowds were gone and security was in smaller numbers.

He just prayed he wasn't out of time.

The alarm in his watch went off. Eight o'clock. It was time. He had five minutes to get to the loading dock when the next shift was taking place, the guards busy in their locker room.

Sneaking around, he waited for the back door to the dock to open. An employee exited and he carefully slipped through, clinging to the wall. On the tips of his toes, he made his way towards the camera room. The door was locked. Looking around, he pulled out his lockpick and got to work. The lock sprung open and he stowed his tool in his pocket when a gun pressed to the back of his head. Slowly, he fanned out his hands and heeded to the guards' request to stand up.

As trained, Dean disabled the gun and knocked the guard out with a swift hit to the temple. There was no time for negotiations. The movement seared through the cuts on his stomach, and he bent over, holding his midriff. Gasping through the pain, he dragged the guard into the computer room, took out his keys, and flashlight. "Sorry pal," he said patting the back of the man's balding head. Quickly, he went to the computer monitor and disabled the video footage for the next ten minutes. His window of time was set.

Step one: he went to the Egyptian wing, pulled out a rock from his pocket and threw it into the glass of a wax figure recreation piece. The lights suddenly dimmed, switching to a red and yellow kaleidoscope. High pitched sirens blared, propelling his feet into action. He hid behind a statue in the Greek Wing and waited for the several guard members to run past. As fast as he could, he ran to the Byzantium wing and found his target.

He only had thirty seconds.

Step two: he threw the second rock from his pocket and broke the glass container surrounding the Chalice. His heart racing, he pulled out the paper with the spell he needed to say to pick up the object…or else his hands would melt off. The Gaelic words were hard to say, but he managed them speaking slowly and carefully. After the phrase was read, he waited for a spark, light, something to indicate he had the all clear. When nothing transpired, he came forward and closed his eyes as he picked up the chalice with his left hand.

It worked.

His hand was still intact when he opened his left eye, his fingers closed around the bronze cup. Stowing the cup into his pocket, he high-tailed it out of the exhibit as his escape window dwindled fast. He had never ran so fast in his life – down the catering hall, up the loading dock, and back into the woods where his Baby waited. Jumping in, he sped away down a dark road as multiple police units raced towards the museum.

"Ha!" he clamored, triumphant, his lead foot speeding the Impala back to town, back to hope.

Several beeps woke John from his slumber, his neck emitting a nice pop as he straightened up. Sam had not moved – obviously – his features lax and unresponsive. He appreciated the beeping; it was the only source of intel that told him his son was still fighting. A cramp chorused in his right hip and he stood, deciding to get some coffee.

Before he left the room, the monitor wailed, the cacophony of beeps now an orchestra. He hollered, "Help! We need help!"

A team of nurses, along with Dr. Reuben, ran in and assessed the situation. "He's in cardiac arrest."

"Help him!" John screamed.

"Get the crash cart!" Reuben yelled. "I'm beginning compressions."

The team unhooked Sam's respirator and attached an Ambu bag, while Dr. Reuben began CPR. A few seconds later, a crash cart with a defibrillator rolled in. The nurse prepped his son with the pads ready to be shocked. Terrified, John backed away into the corner covering his mouth with his hands. His nightmare was finally becoming true and he had no idea how to stop it. "Come on Dean!"

Dean made it back to house 2503 in less than two hours. Running up the front steps, he barreled through the door, laden with sweat, and on the cusp of insanity. "Glenda!" he called. "I've got it."

The witch glided down her stairwell wearing a midnight blue shawl and feathered cap. "Dean, you have what I've asked for?"

"Here," he said handing it over.

She gingerly took it from his hands idly feeling the bumps around the bronze metal, closing her eyes as though she was reunited with a long lost love. "I can't believe it," she exclaimed, cradling the cup, then whispered to it: "Hello again, my love. I've missed you."

To say Dean was weirded out would be an understatement.

"This belonged to my husband. I haven't seen this in over a century," she answered his unspoken question, her back turned to him. Then she whirled around, her gaze sharpening. "Come quickly! We're almost out of time."

Dean's feet leapt after her into the small kitchenette. Placing the chalice down on the wooden island, she shuffled to a tall armoire. Inside were several shelves full of randomly shaped apothecary jars. Dean couldn't keep track of all the ingredients she pulled. In a dance-like motion, Glenda poured various amounts of the herbal contents into the bronze cup.

Glenda asked, "You share the same DNA as your brother, yes?"

"What?"

"He's your full-blooded brother? You both share the same set of parents, true?"

"Oh! Yeah."

"Good!" She plucked a few hairs from the top of his head causing him to quietly yelp.

Once she added the hairs to the cup, she poured in a dark liquid from a tall s-shaped bottle, muttering a few words. Dean couldn't make out the language, however, it sounded ancient...maybe some of the Gaelic he had read earlier. The concoction began to bubble and churn, spinning into a high speed. Glenda snapped her fingers and, in the blink of an eye, the brown brew vanished from the cup and appeared in a small vile in her hand.

Quickly, she thrust it into his hand. "He has to drink this. You need to go now. Get there as fast as you can!"

The pit in Dean's stomach dropped and he raced out the door. There was no time for goodbyes or appreciation. He knew she would understand as he jumped behind the wheel. His beloved Impala screamed, turning back onto the road, as it sped off towards the hospital.