Dean and Lom skulked through the dark town like stray cats. They kept to the shadows and moved without speaking. Lom lead the way, promising he had a place for them to hide and since Dean didn't know the town, he reluctantly deferred to the piano man's resources. It was disconcerting following someone who wasn't his brother and Lom sure as hell wasn't Sam: the man was scrambly and awkward but at least he knew the lay of the land. His spectacles glinted, weird flashes like some of the monsters they hunted, and it kept making Dean's heart jump.
They dodged every horse and passer-by or, failing that, forced a casual stroll to the next pool of shadows. The unpaved streets felt conspicuously busy. It could've been Dean's painful hope to remain unnoticed, but probably the bloodbath at the jail was drawing more folks than might normally be out this time of night.
Christ, stay inside, you fools, Dean couldn't help but pray.
Lom paused at the corner of a big two-storey building. It was piecemealed together from a bunch of other buildings, the wood siding a puzzle of a dozen different textures, and some of windows were sheeted in red-colored glass. He picked up a pebble from the street and plunked it at a particular window—not a red one but a pane just adjacent.
"Trudy!" he hissed, throwing a second stone. Dean winced and kept an eye out for nosy neighbors. Or werewolves, whichever came first.
A small outline appeared in the window, moving closer to expose a petite, dark-haired woman, barely more than a girl. Her expression turned bothered and she waved a hand. Lom nodded and tugged Dean around the corner to a door he hadn't even noticed before. Light footfalls came from inside before the door cracked open.
Okay, so maybe she wasn't as young as Dean had first guessed, with her wry lips and sun-weathered skin. She wore some sort of corset around her middle that pinched in at the waist and boosted her tits up into the thin fabric of a blouse, pointedly advertising her profession. She had a mess of brunette curls and dark eyes that stung like hornets.
"Well. If you're here for a fuck, Columbus, you're not getting it for free." This time. Dean recognized the flash of angry affection directed at Lom. Knew it well; such a look had been aimed at Dean on more than a few occasions throughout his life, from various women he'd … known.
Lom shuffled from foot to foot. "I am sorry, Trudy. But can we—"
"Who is this 'we'?" Her glare narrowed and shot to Dean's battered face.
"Dean Winchester, ma'am." Dean attempted his patented 'lady killer' smile but it fell dead in the water and hurt like hell.
"Is that supposed to mean one damn to me? You come here, belly to the brush, on the coattails of this bastard and expect niceties?"
"Uh, excuse me?"
Showing his empty palms, Lom pressed forward and rescued Dean from further barbs. "Trudy, we've just come from the jail and I have had a most appalling evening. Please. If you could let us in for an hour, maybe two …"
"The jail?" Her pissiness eased a touch. "I caught sight of the blaze all the way from my window. What ruination have you gotten yourself into, Lom?"
Dean cleared his throat.
Lom fidgeted. "If you'll let us in, I can tell you one hell of a story and had I not lived it, I'd have feared I dreamt it. On my mother's grave, I swear to you."
"You'd best not be bringing your fucking mother into this. Nor the grave." The whore huffed and stepped aside, eyeing them both as they passed.
The foyer opened directly onto an ill-lit staircase and she lead the way up, the wood complaining under their collective weight. Dean faltered on the narrow steps. He was exhausted and he knew once he sat down, he wasn't getting up again unless forced. They traveled a short hallway that was lit by smudged kerosene sconces, closed doors lining either side like a shitty hotel—which wasn't far from the truth if that hotel included a particular type of room service. Sounds issued from the passing doors that validated any suspicion Dean might've had about the place.
She ushered the men into her boudoir, with its moth-eaten lace curtains and unmade bed and cloying stink of lavender, latching the door behind. Lom immediately sank onto the bed and removed his glasses, swiping a hand across his brow. His face was the same color as the dingy sheets. Dean made the hygienic decision to sit in a chair by the window, easing down and looking out into the streets below. There were too damned many dark corners and sheltered porches. If something wanted to lose itself in shadow, it could. Easily.
Their hostess pulled a bottle from a drawer and blew dust from a trio of shot glasses. "You drink, Mr. Winchester?"
"God, yes," Dean said.
Lom wiped his palms on his trousers and exhaled. "I do appreciate this, Trudy. More than you—"
She shoved a drink into his hand. "Don't thank me, just start talkin'."
Normally, Dean disapproved of enlightening the masses. No one wanted to believe in monsters. No one wanted to fear the unrecognizable things that teemed after sundown and flickered past the corner of your eye and lived—if they were alive at all—by a different set of rules known only to the nightmares themselves. The moment that Sammy, with his big heathery eyes and smart mouth, had cornered Dean about Dad's journal and all the inconsistencies in what he saw between their lives and those of the rest of the world, Dean's heart had sunk into his belly. It might be there still. Innocence: banished by the wit of an eight-year-old too smart for his own good.
Dean simply gave Lom a nod.
The piano player set his spectacles back on his nose, fiddled with the wire arms until they tucked properly behind his ears, and took a gulp of whiskey. "You know those nights, Trudy, when we'd hear something moan north of town, from the badlands, over the foothills? And it'd send a chill up your spine but you'd just say 'Oh, a goose walked over my grave,' and we figured it was only a coyote cryin', or the Ute trying to spook folks away from the mines?" Lom stared at his drink and Trudy shifted, impatient. "It's nothing that easy. The tall tales, the ghost stories the old timers tell, well, they are not … tales. On this evening and before my very eyes, I have seen men become … become beasts as I've never witnessed before. Never so much as imagined." Lom's hands were shaking.
Trudy curled her lip in clear disbelief, shot a glance to Dean.
"Hey, don't give me that poop-face. It is what it is, sister," he chuckled humorlessly.
"You two take me for a fool?" She jabbed a finger in no one's direction, in particular. Just jabbed.
Lom stood, arms flung wide—a gesture Sam often made and it stung to see—spilling rot-gut on the sheets and adding to the stains. "Do you take me for a superstitious redneck? Why would I risk looking like a danged sap, telling you this? I saw Lukasz Kluj change. His bones broke and he became furred over the whole of his body and I do not know what he is now, but he is most assuredly not human. No. Not in any sense we claim." Lom's cheeks rushed with color, sweat staining the pits of his shirt even though the night had gotten brisk and the wind was picking up. Felt like something waiting to happen. Some kind of horrible expectancy …
"Sit down before you have a brain fit," Trudy scowled but her voice held an edge of doubt. "Lukasz?"
"Yes. And Billy Harper, Tanner Bales and that youngster that used to hang along with them until Mr. Winchester saw to his timely dispatch."
"Humph. No great loss."
"Yes, but now, it's so so much worse. There are others ..."
"I always knew Harper was a prick. Do you know he gave me the cl—"
Dean jumped in at that point. "So, yeah, we're talking werewolves here."
"And why, exactly, do you think I need to be a part of this stupidity?" she snapped right back.
"Because you do not want these fuckers running around your town, either eating folks or making adorable new werewolves out of the survivors. And—" Dean took a wince-inducing swallow from his glass "—I have a brother out there somewhere. Gotta find him."
Trudy pinched her mouth into an unyielding line and poured herself another shot. She crossed the room to the window, both Dean and Lom following her movements with their eyes as though she held the key to their entire survival. She probably didn't, but Dean's options were tight and at this point; he couldn't afford to let any stone go unturned. His head was swimming and his belly was empty and he needed one damned thing to break in his direction.
"You are so full of shit," she mumbled.
Dean grinned, hearing the give in her voice. "And your whiskey sucks."
Trudy threw back the drink defiantly. "Fine. What do you jackasses need?"
xXx
That night, Trudy brought them up smoked meat, cheese and rock-hard biscuits, and Dean had never appreciated a meal as much as he did in that moment. They ate at the small table, finished her whiskey, and talked in hushed voices about ghoulies and ghosties and long-leggedy beasties. Lom listened with rapt attention; he'd borne witness to the truth and it was rocking his tiny world. He didn't crumble, though. It took a certain steel, or desperation or idiocy, to venture this far out West, and Mongrel was not a town for the delicate flower. Trudy threw a pile of blankets on the floor for Dean and allowed Lom to share her bed.
She made quite certain to latch the windows and lock the door tight.
Despite his worry for Sam, Dean dropped into unconsciousness and slept the sleep of the dead. He didn't stir until anemic dawn leaked through the curtains and a rooster or five began crowing. He lay there aching for a while, too stiff to budge with more than slow, stilted movements. The floor was cold but the blankets, thick and warm. Trudy was already awake and returning to the room; she looked somehow less intimidating by the light of morning. Tinier, plainer. She stood over Dean and dropped a clean shirt onto his chest.
"There's water in the basin if you feel like washin'. I highly suggest it." Then she wandered to the bed and unceremoniously roused Lom by twisting his nipple. Dean counted his blessings.
The trio took breakfast at a small public kitchen, since the Sweetwater was still a disaster from the previous day's 'celebration' and according to Trudy, Harper wasn't welcomed at this particular eatery. As Dean sat at the table, inhaling the aroma of eggs and sourdough and fried venison, as he sipped the powerfully strong coffee and picked grounds off his tongue, he didn't miss the backnote of vinegar one bit. The Leviathans weren't even a twinkle in anyone's eye. It was the second best meal he'd eaten in as many months.
Lom sawed at his meat with a dull knife. "I'm a tad … overwhelmed, I confess. I can likely get you a gun but those—" he dropped his voice to a stage whisper, "—those beasts would not be brought down by a bullet, I fear."
Ah, but then there was the pesky werewolf problem. "Get me a shotgun and I'll show you how to make silver buckshot. Ain't hard," Dean said between mouthfuls. "Good thing we're right by a mine, hmm? Don't think we'll have time to pour bullets but if we can get the dogs down and squirming with the buckshot, we can take off their heads and then set their hairy asses on fire."
Trudy snorted. "My, but you make it sound so easy."
"You're right; it's not. These bitches are bigger than I've seen before. And I don't know how full the moon has to be to trigger their little costume change. Hell, they might not even shift tonight but we can't take that chance."
"I can figure out where Harper's gotten to," she told them. "Bales ought to be right on Harper's backside. Lukasz has a wag-tail at The Calico Cat and she'll talk for a bottle of cheap corn liquor. Who else at the jail got a fur coat last night?"
"O'Grady. Reese. The others, I don't know," Lom said. "Not certain any of them made it free of the fire, though."
They ate in silence for a few minutes until Lom wagged his fork, a considering look on his face. "You know who might know a thing or two?"
Dean arched his brows in question over the rim of a coffee mug.
"The White Witch."
This got an immediate, and not wholly positive, reaction from Trudy. "Don't be a starin' fool, Columbus McCallum."
Lom shrugged, shrinking back in his chair.
"Whoa, wait, who?" Dean demanded.
"The White Witch." Lom kept half an eye on Trudy like she might smack him for repeating the name. He continued even when her expression thinned with warning. "I think she lives about a day's travel out of town. I see her every now and again, riding in on her big black horse to visit the mercantile. Keeps to herself mostly, but once in a while she visits folks. Folks who're in a bad way. Sometimes she helps."
Trudy grumbled under her breath, "And sometimes … she don't."
"What happens when she doesn't help?" Dean had to know.
Lom and Trudy exchanged loaded glances; Lom swiped at his mouth with a napkin before speaking.
"This spring past, old Flora Meeks started talking to her husband again. Now, this wouldn't have caused a stir if the mister Meeks hadn't already been deceased for nigh upon a month. We just assumed it was the years making her infirm but when the doc went out to check on her one Sunday evening—bring her a liniment to ease her arthritis—he said he saw something. Spooked him clean out of his wits and he wouldn't go back nor talk about it. The Witch rode in the next day, went to Mrs. Meeks's home and paid her a visit." Lom leaned forward conspiratorially. "By Wednesday, the widow was dead. No one's saying it was the Witch, but no ones saying it wasn't, either. They ended up burning the Meeks homestead because people kept hearing conversations when there shouldn't have been a one, the place being empty and all."
Dean nodded. Sounded like a fairly routine haunting, which of course wasn't the least bit routine to the people of Mongrel. It did, however, pique his curiosity something fierce. "Why do they call her the White Witch, anyway?"
"Her hair, it's white as salt."
Interesting, but not important. "No, man, why do they call her a witch?"
"Anyone who hobnobs with the Paiute the way she does has earned the name," Trudy stated with dour certainty.
Lom fretted like he had something else to say but he kept his mouth shut.
"All righty then." Maybe once they were out from under Trudy's stink-eye, Lom would spill it. Dean wadded his napkin, threw it on an empty plate, and rolled up the sleeves of his borrowed shirt. "Where do we find this White Witch?"
xXx
No one knew for certain where the witch lived; she seemed to turn up at random intervals—unless you knew what you were looking for. Dean suspected if he had the luxury of the internet, he could coordinate her appearance with strange goings-on. Or Sam could, at any rate, but since he had access to neither a computer or his brother, he and Lom began at the last home she'd visited two weeks ago. A nice family, from all outward signs. Rev. Chivington had come from back east with his wife and daughter in an attempt to bring old-time religion to the miners and savages. Good luck, there, Dean had thought derisively. Rev. Chivington seemed to be widely tolerated, though, so perhaps his particular brand of hellfire and brimstone was strongly tempered with common sense and patience. They lived in a modest house behind an unnamed chapel, and someone had attempted to plant flowers around the short stone walk. The siding was whitewashed, a double-swing hung from chains on the small porch, and honest-to-God, there was a fruit pie cooling in the window.
Trudy wasn't with them—she had 'business' to address—so the men brushed the dust off their shoulders and rapped on the Chivingtons' door. The missus answered with a wary smile and Lom removed his hat, respectfully.
"Mrs. Chivington?" Dean smiled in return, showing just the right amount of tooth. "My name is Dean Winchester. I … I need your help, ma'am."
Being a preacher's wife, she was programmed to never turn away a soul in need; Dean was well aware of this. He opened his expression wide and worked the sort of softness in his eyes he'd seen Sammy milk a million times.
"How can I help you, gentlemen?" She didn't seem surprised that Dean knew her name. She was, after all, the town preacher's wife.
"Ma'am, I'm looking for the White Witch; I heard she—"
Mrs. Chivington's expression flipped so quickly, Dean almost felt the breeze of its passing. "I don't know what you heard, Mr. Winchester, but I am not in a position to discuss her."
"Wait, please—"
"I'm sorry."
The door started to close but Dean pressed a palm to it and the preacher's wife turned not just displeased, but cold enough to freeze Hell. He heard Lom behind him, drawing in breath.
He had to think fast, abandoning the puppy dog eyes which he sucked at, anyways. "Lady, I know you've seen things you can't explain and this White Witch is in the middle of it but, God, I need your help. Her help. I don't think you're crazy; sometimes really shitty—I mean awful—things happen to good people and look, I believe what you've seen. I've seen stuff too."
She kept pressing the door as her eyes flickered up to Dean.
"Mrs. Chivington. I've seen things too. And I need her help to find my brother before something real bad finds him. Come on, please." The naked truth very seldom worked in Dean's favor, but this was the second time in as many days that it actually did. If Dean didn't know better, he'd swear it was a sign of the Apocalypse.
The woman sighed weightily, her shoulders drooping, and she released her grip on the door. "Come in."
When Dean stepped inside, Lom on his heels, he saw a strange little girl staring at them from a hallway. Maybe ten years old. Man, it was so easy for little girls to get strange. Lilith was proof.
Mrs. Chivington set a soft hand on the girl's shoulder. "Emmeline, can you check on the hens? Get some eggs?"
The girl didn't nod but picked up a basket from the floor, dragged her still-strange gaze over Dean, and headed out the back door of the tiny house.
"Have a seat, gentlemen." The woman didn't exactly sound cordial as she tucked a few escaped wisps back into her severe braid, but she had agreed to speak to them and for that, Dean was grateful.
He sat on the edge of a wooden chair, leaning on his knees, choosing his words carefully for a change. "I've had a fair amount of experience with things that go bump in the night," he said frankly. "I need to know if this White Witch is the real thing, if she deals with the sort of … business … that I hope she does. What did she do for your family?"
The woman clenched her hands in her lap, spoke in a lowered voice. "A fortnight ago, Emmeline returned from the chapel and she was not … right. I feared she'd caught a fever, something that made her hysterical and say things no child should say. She's a good girl, my Emmie. But she was using coarse, unbecoming language and spoke of fighting and wanton acts. The reverend and I were not blessed with a large family; she is our only child and she kept asking about siblings she did not have. I thought, perhaps, she was imagining tales of the War with the South; we try to keep her sheltered from the horror of it but she's a bright girl. She reads. It became so dreadful, I was forced to lock her into her room at night because she took to wandering at all hours. Mr. Winchester, I caught her trying to play faro at the Sweetwater! But not even a locked door could confine her. I prayed and I prayed … this was not our daughter."
"Did Emmeline look different? Funny eyes? Did you find—" Dean rubbed his thumb and forefinger together "—yellow powder on the window sills?"
"That's exactly what the Witch asked. No, I did not."
"So, the Witch came?"
"Yes. She told us our daughter was … was possessed." The preacher's wife could barely choke out the word. "Inhabited. She insisted upon privacy so we could not know what she actually did, though the reverend was strongly opposed. All I know is I was scrubbing blood off the walls when she was finished. But she returned Emmeline to us."
"I'm glad it worked for you." Because it could've gone bad in so many ways, so very quickly. "Mrs. Chivington, I really need the Witch's help, too. How did you get word to her?"
"That's just it; I did not. She simply showed up. I hear that's the way it is with her."
"That's just … great."
"I am sorry. I wish I could be of more help but superstition being what it is out here, it's far better for us to just go on with our lives and not involve ourselves with the Witch again. I appreciate what she did, but I do not know how she did it. And that frightens me."
The back door slammed and strange, little Emmeline walked in, a dozen speckled brown eggs nestled in the bottom of her basket. "Sassafras is laying again."
Mrs. Chivington's face grew tender and she opened her arms for her daughter to curl to her chest. "That's lovely. Emmie, this is Mr. Winchester and his friend. They were just leaving."
Lom had been sitting silently and now he stood. Dean reluctantly followed suit.
"You're one too," Emmeline said, resting on her mother's shoulder.
"What's that, sweetie?"
"Mr. Winchester. He's one too."
Dean canted his head, a little voice in the back of his brain ranting, I knew it I knew it I knew it. "One what?"
Emmeline smiled. "A vessel."
"Uh …" Okay, that wasn't what he was expecting.
"And I know where the Witch is. I like her."
Lom's brows nearly hit his hairline over his glasses.
Mrs. Chivington's hands fluttered over her daughter's hair. "Did she tell you?"
Emmeline shook her head. "I saw her house. She has a black horse. It's out by the three striped rocks." And then she pointed northerly.
"Emmeline, it's not nice to tell tales—"
"I'm not, Mother."
Lom leaned forward and whispered into Dean's ear, "I know where that is."
"It's fine, Mrs. Chivington. You've been awesome." Dean waggled his finger at Emmeline." And you've been awesome."
"I know." Emmeline grinned again—it was almost a smirk—and Dean felt an uncomfortable creep of familiarity.