Thanks so much for the reviews! *HUGS*
***********************
Dean woke with the same little girl looking down at him, her bare feet just inches from his head. His head? He winced and lifted it, which sent the girl bouncing off the mattress and skittering down the hall. Not the most conventional way to wake up, but at least she didn't pinch his nose or something equally childish and humiliating. He blinked a few times, then rolled over, glancing at his still-sleeping brother's back. The grey shirt was pulled tight across his shoulders. His body was eased, his breathing calm. Dean reached out his hand and rested it lightly on Sam's back. Freakin' Sasquatch didn't even have the decency to snore, he was so asleep. Dean changed his mind about pinching him awake. He carefully sat up and slowly removed his covers.
The floor was cold beneath his bare feet. He hissed and pressed his weight down, willing his body heat to flush to his toes and reduce the chill, then stood awkwardly. He'd slept in his jeans, as had Sam. There wasn't enough room for the two of them to change comfortably, and the night had been cold. Dean winced and raised his right arm, popping his shoulder joint. A shower would probably be appreciated by the household. He opened the bedroom door and shuffled out, wondering what time it was.
What time it was, was too damned early. No wonder Sam was still asleep. Toby's room had no window, so Dean was surprised to see the vagueness of twilight. The sky overhead was a dark blue, lightening towards the horizon in a strip of light. He'd only been asleep maybe four hours, at most.
Damn.
The little girl was nowhere to be found. He scratched his stomach and the back of his neck, instinctively making for the kitchen. Going back to sleep wasn't an option. He didn't want to toss and turn and wake Sam. Turning on the tv probably wasn't the best plan. Same for the shower. Surely they were early risers, he could see a farm in the distance though the kitchen window. In front of it, dark spots of standing cattle. Rows of vegetation beyond that, backlit by the horizon. Someone had to be up to tend to it, but apparently no one in this household.
He walked outside, then sighed and sat on the stairs leading to the small front porch. A few moments later he was walking, then jogging, down the dirt road.
Shoes would have been a good idea. The road was soft-packed, which helped. Not to mention, he was out of shape. His Lazarus act had left everything intact, including his muscle tone, but he was really having to work to keep it up. His stamina was nil. Something about rising from the dead took it out of a guy. Sam didn't have this trouble when he came back, but he was only dead for, how long was it? Two days maybe? It was a thought that stopped him in his tracks. Was he seriously comparing their deaths and resurrections? He gave his head an incredulous shake and chuckled, then resumed his pace.
He tried not to think of the four-month old corpses he'd seen during his adult life. Tried not to think about the decomposition of his own body. Bizarre-ass, freaky lifestyle.
Snake in the road. His mind registered it's presence just before he ran over it, and he stopped quickly, his breath coming in harsh gasps.
The snake had left a trail as wide as its body in the loose dirt. The head rose. Beady eyes looked at him as it tasted the air. It was only a few feet away, and probably close to four feet long. He'd never seen the orange-red coloring before.
He didn't move. It was close enough to lash out at him, yet it just watched, with that damned tongue licking out like it wanted to sample his aura or something. No way. He suddenly had a very bad feeling, and braved tearing his eyes away from the snake to glance around, wondering if he really was being watched. At that moment, the sun chose to crack the horizon, and he raised a hand against the glare. His movement was sudden and without thought. He braced himself, expecting the snake to take offense and attack. But once his eyes adjusted, he found that the snake was gone.
His eyes drifted over the track it left behind. Tried to ignore the fact that there was no track continuing to the opposite side of the road. At the moment, a literal turn-about sounded like fair play.
He returned to a bustling household. Even on the road he could hear the sounds of pots and pans clanging, and smelled pork cooking. Small voices murmured and wailed.. Sam was sitting on the porch, waiting for him, looking like he'd just rolled out of bed. His long hair was mussed, and he hadn't bothered to gel it back from his face. His tanned arm were crossed over his knees, his hands gripping his biceps tightly. His toes curled down over the edge of the step. So much for restful sleep, he looked tight as a bow-string. "Dude!" Sam stood, and walked quickly to Dean, each bare step kicking up dust that would have to be washed off. "Where were you?"
Dean pulled at the front of his shirt, fanning it against his chest, trying to get some air flowing. "Woke up early, couldn't get back to sleep. Damn, it's hot already."
"You should've told me." Sam insisted, but Dean shook his head stubbornly.
"You were out like Rip Van Winkle. No way. Sorry. Not that it seemed to do you much good, you look like crap."
"And you smell like it."
Sam looked more worried than he had a right to. Dean had to admit that were the situation reversed, he'd have the same reaction. He changed the topic. "That's not me. Do I smell bacon?"
"Yeah. Toby's wife's cooking a feast for us before we head out. I told her she didn't have to, but she gets this look in her eye when you try to say no. Toby says she scares the crap out of him."
"Is he a closet sadist? Why'd he marry her?"
"Taste the bacon."
Dean gave a small laugh and followed Sam inside. He was instantly attacked by tiny arms and rapid speech, making him more uncomfortable than that snake ever could. He tried not to trip as small fingers grabbed at his sweaty tee and pulled him to the kitchen, speaking in a cut-up language that he didn't understand.
Sam eased in by his shoulder, grinning at the sight of the small children climbing his brother. "Looks like it's your turn."
"No, wait, you don't wanna climb on me, I stink," Dean insisted as he dipped under the weight of a child tugging at him. "You mean you didn't scare 'em off? Where were all these things hiding?" There were so many. He bent and scooped up a young boy who grinned at him widely. His front teeth were missing. Dean pretended to be shocked by the sight, then set the boy back to the concrete floor. The boy smiled again as the children once again closed in.
Sam snorted. "These things are Toby's and Summer Rain's kids." His face scrunched in concentration. "Maya, Pen, uh. . .John," a small smile, "Austin, and Suki."
"You and your freakin' photographic memory."
"Uh, yeah. That's visual, Dean. You'll notice I didn't point them out as I named them."
Dean smiled uncomfortably at the children as he untangled himself, and turned to the woman standing at the stove. "Summer Rain, right? That's a real nice name."
The lady turned to him, and Dean was startled to see blond hair wisping from beneath the red wrap that tried desperately to hold it back from her face. "Thanks. She's my favorite poet."
Dean turned to Sam for an explanation, but he just shrugged. His eyes were smiling, all the tension gone for the moment.
Grampa came stomping in, ubiquitous unlit pipe clasped firmly in his clawed hand. Even from a distance he smelled of soap and aftershave, which was more than Dean could say for himself. His long hair was pulled back with a single leather strip. He grunted a welcome to Sam and Dean, and was swarmed by his great-grandchildren, all bouncing on their toes with their arms stretched up to him. He scooped up the smallest child, the one who had climbed Dean, and sank into a chair at the table, settling the imp in his lap. The pipe was set aside. "So it's your turn, little one. Tell Papa your dream, and I'll tell you what it means." He spoke English, in a voice that was gravelly and authoritative, yet filled with affection.
The child was delighted at having been picked. The other children gathered close around his knees, waiting for the pending story.
The boy responded in spotty English. "I warrior. In the trees. Big snake."
"What did it say to you?"
"Say I'm brave boy. I say, 'I brave'." He held two fists together and swung down. "Killed it."
"I see. And then?"
His thin arms flung out. "Snake grew big! I biggest warrior!." He hit his chest with his fist, then frowned. "Tried to eat me."
One of the girls giggled.
Grampa looked at Sam and Dean. "I believe what the Master Snake says of you. You are a fine warrior with a fine heart. You will do good things in this lifetime." Though he spoke to the boy, his eyes were on Dean. "What color was the snake, young Austin?"
The small child gave the question serious thought. "Color – like sun. Before night."
Dean swallowed.
"You are correct. Now go wash up before breakfast. The bus will be here for school. Clean up, now!"
"They go to a pubic school?" Sam asked, as Dean frowned over the information he just heard, trying to decide just what the ill-feeling in the pit of his stomach was.
"No education here. They have to." Grampa leaned to one hip and pulled out a small metal canister. He tossed it onto the table and studied his pipe for a moment, then twisted open the top. Pinched tobacco. Filled the pipe.
Toby walked in. "Four chickens are gone," he said in disgust, removing his cap from his head and slamming it down onto the breakfast table. Summer Rain turned and picked it up, handed it back to him, and set a platter of biscuits in its place.
"Lemme guess," Dean said. "Snake?"
Toby frowned, repositioning the cap on his head. "No. Coyote."
Oh. Dean raised his chin and blinked, then backed out of the way.
Toby stood over his grandfather. "We need to repair that fence. Today."
"We have other things to do today."
"I think our food supply is more important than. . ."
"Which is why I rarely ask you to think in these matters." The old man's voice was calm, but his expression was sharp.
"Well, we can help, that way it wouldn't take much time," Sam offered.
"No. There is too much to do."
"Grampa. . ."
"I said no." The voice was like a gunshot. Coal-dark eyes scanned over everyone in the room.
Toby, breathing heavily, just pressed his lips tight together and nodded. He walked out of the kitchen, right as Summer Rain declared breakfast ready.
Dean started for the table, but was instantly surrounded by returning children, whooping and hollering and suddenly much louder than they had been a moment ago. He raised his arms and teetered as they crashed around him like a wave. He felt Sam grab his wrist, pulling him back against the wall as the children jumped into their chairs; their school clothes pressed, hair combed, small hands snatching at biscuits and whatever food was within reach. Little Maya stood in a chair by the counter and carefully poured each child a small glass of milk from a glass pitcher. Summer Rain was filling plates with fresh eggs and bacon.
She looked up. "Hungry?"
Dean glanced over the table, rocking with kicking feet and already covered with crumbs, then took in his and Sam's disheveled, unwashed appearance. "I think we'll eat on the porch," he replied.
She nodded and filled two more plates, quickly snatching up two biscuits from the table before they were consumed. "Coffee?"
"Please," Sam said, taking the plates that were stretched towards him over the heads of the children.
Dean walked to her to take the mugs, rather than reaching over the table for them, not wanting to risk scalding the dark heads. Actually, one child was blond, like her mother, but her eyes were dark. It was a striking combination. "Thanks. Wait, where's your plate?"
"I've eaten. I eat first if I want a chance to eat at all."
Dean smiled and followed his brother outside.
The sun was full in the sky, so bright that squinting did little to help. Dean shuffled in a circle on the porch, plate in one hand, coffee in the other, looking for a place to park himself. He chose a shadowed corner just in front of the porch swing, and set his coffee down. The wood at his back was cool, for now. Sam sat on the stairs, apparently not bothered by the sun. He sipped at his coffee and went to work on his eggs without a word. In the distance, the loud whirring of cicadas could be heard. Hell, everything even sounded hot.
Dean stared at his plate. He wanted a shower. He felt too dusty to eat. But the aroma wafted to his nose, and his stomach growled.
They were damned right about the bacon.
***************
Sam scratched his head underneath the straw cowboy hat that Toby had plunked on him. "You'll need it," he had said before they left, and drove out about fifteen minutes out from the reservation to a field half covered with grass. The blue pickup, a stubborn, nineteen seventy-three Ford model with flaking blue paint that Dean was probably itching to get his mechanic's fingers on, came to a troubled stop. Dean and Sam jumped from the hot, metal bed, landed in a puff of dirt, and surveyed the nothingness of the land around them.
The driver's door opened with a squawk that made the Impala's door sound like a timid mouse. Grampa stepped down and slammed it shut. Toby exited from the other side.
Sam winced into the distance. "Toby, what's your grandfather got in mind?" he asked his friend quietly.
"He wouldn't tell me. My money's on him testing you two."
Dean turned. "Test us? What the hell for?"
"I don't know. Worthiness?"
Sam huffed. "Worthiness? For what?"
"Hey, he doesn't exactly tell me everything, you know? He just loves keeping an air of mystery around him. Wears it like a damn cloak."
"He's a shaman, though, right?" Sam asked. "I mean, a real one?"
"Because there's so many fake ones around here? Yeah, he's real. And don't call him a shaman. He takes offense."
"What do you call him, then?"
"Alektca."
Sam pronounced the word softly to himself and watched Dean wander out into the dead pasture.
His thumbs were tucked into his back pockets. The cowboy hat suited him. Sam found that he could easily picture his brother as a ranch hand, living under the stars. Somehow, he looked in his element out here. Of course, the thought of Dean on the back of a horse was laughable.
Grampa tugged a large bag from behind the passenger seat, muttering in his distinct language. Toby gave him a hand, and it jimmied free. Toby then reached in and grabbed another bag with provisions packed carefully inside. Grampa grunted as the weight of the bag pulled at his arm, but he waved away assistance. There was a single tree in the distance, and he made for it.
"Guess we follow?" Sam asked.
"You wanna stay here and hold up the truck?" Toby clapped Sam on the back. "Hey, Dean!"
"Yeah?" The voice sounded distant.
"Come on."
The tree provided no shade, only dark lines that cut the dry ground into a jigsaw puzzle. Grampa spread out a blanket and signaled for the men to sit. Sam leaned his weight to one hip, one leg stretched before him, bracing himself with his right arm. Dean was next to him, cross legged. Toby uncomfortably maneuvered himself into a similar position, and took what was handed to him.
Grampa pulled out a few more items and set them on the colorful blanket. There was sage, a rattle, and a tiny glass bowl with a pouch in it. He straightened his back, closed his eyes. A chant grew from the back of his throat, gravelly like his voice, but growing more clear and insistent. His lipless mouth raised to the heavens above him, and Sam found himself glancing up briefly, expecting something to be there. That was a bad thing to do, as the white sky shot at the backs of his eyeballs, and he lowered his head quickly, shaking it. He felt Dean's hand clasp his knee in question, but it was removed before he could focus on it. The heat, the brightness, the chant, everything was pressing in on him. He was feeling restless, and shifted carefully, trying not to disturb anyone. A glance at his brother showed him stationary, his eyes fixed on the sage in front of him. Toby was sitting as straight as his Grandfather, eyes closed, swaying faintly in time with the chant. Sam carefully pulled his legs in, straightened his spine, closed his eyes, and tried to feel the moment.
He relaxed.
There was the sound of a match striking, and a sweet, smoky scent filled his nostrils. The aroma grew in intensity, and he realized Grampa must be waving the sage wand around his head, then his body, purifying him in the Native American tradition. When the scent ebbed, he wanted to open his eyes and see if his brother was being put through the same, but the lingering smell showed that he was. That, and his eyes were cemented together, his body limp. He didn't want to move. He knew Dean was there, he could just feel their knees in contact. It was reassuring, because as calm as he felt, he suddenly wasn't sure what was going on. That thought hit his conscience like a spark, and he snapped back, hearing sharp noises that he'd previously drowned out, but he didn't open his eyes. He didn't want anyone to know. He wanted to lose himself again.
As if Grampa had heard his thought, the chant turned into a single note, sung out from the depths of his soul, possibly of the earth. The reverberation was felt in his chest, lifting him from his doubt and settling him back into the calm embrace of peacefulness.
Words came out of that note, and Sam wasn't disturbed by it. He let himself drift, until he was lost. Everything faded, and nothing mattered.
**************************
Sam came back with a gasp, his body jerking upright. He felt like a flame that had just been extinguished as his lungs filled with cool air. He blinked rapidly, coughing, suddenly frightened. He didn't know where he was. Everything was dark, he couldn't see! Was he blind? A hand on his shoulder made him jerk again, and Toby's voice filtered through his confusion. "Easy, friend. You did well."
"I – what? Wh – ?" He squinted at his flickering surroundings, heart still trying to escape his chest. "What happened?"
"Don't worry. You passed." Toby sat back on his heels.
"I – passed? Passed what?" He was confused. He couldn't remember anything. Was he drugged?
"You successfully made it back."
"Back? From where?" Focusing on Toby's face, finally. What about – "Where's Dean?"
"Still in. He should wake up soon."
"Still in what?"
"The Shadowland."
"Shadowland?" Sam asked dumbly. He glanced around the area as though to spot it. Above him, the stars watched. It was night? The whole day was gone?
Toby raised his canteen to Sam's lips. "He'll wake up soon. No, wait – drink easy." Sam swallowed hugely and gasped, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "What do you remember?"
Remember? He could hardly think. "Ahh." He winced against the pain in his head, and continued. "Nothing. Images maybe, like a dream." He tried again, but nothing came to him. "I can't piece it together. I just know that. . ." his head jerked to the side to find his brother, lying peacefully on his back, his hands folded on top of his chest. "Wait, he's still under? I mean, he's still there?"
"Yes."
Fear flooded him, fear that he couldn't explain. Sam quickly pushed to his knees and crawled to Dean, leaning over him, one hand reaching out. He wanted to touch him, but he didn't want to scare him awake. "We've gotta get him out," he said urgently. "Now."
"Why?"
"Because it — he's just," Sam gave his head a shake. "Dammit!" He couldn't remember. He didn't know. He just felt panic, and it was growing.
"Sam. . ."
"Please, just wake him up! I can't remember why, but I know he has to wake up!"
"He will! Look, feel here." Toby took Sam's hand and pressed it to the steady, beating pulse in his brother's neck. "See? He's fine. There's no distress."
But that didn't sound right. It didn't sound right at all. Yet Sam couldn't pinpoint the reason for his anxiety, he couldn't remember, dammit, and he was pissed. "I don't care. Wake him. Now."
"I cannot."
Sam fisted Toby's shirt. "Toby, listen to me. I know you helped me when he was gone. I'm not gonna lose him again. Wake him up!"
"You don't understand!" Toby jerked Sam's hand from him. "I can't! I'm not capable!"
"Then get your Grampa to!"
"No, Sam. No!" He grabbed Sam's hands right as they touched his brother. "Listen to me. Waking him is dangerous. He must wake on his own."
Suddenly Dean did waken, with a full intake of air followed by raking coughs.
Sam immediately pulled from Toby and shoved his brother over from his back to his side, bracing him. "Dean! Easy, man. Breathe."
Dean choked and curled into a ball, and managed to pull in a pained breath. He coughed again, then fought for air. "Ah – God! Sam?"
"You okay?"
"Uh, yeah. I think so." Sam leaned over his brother's side, trying to see the face that was pressing into the blanket. A few more coughs, and he turned onto his back, blinking up at Sam. "What was it?"
"I don't know. I don't remember much, do you?" Only that you were dying. That thought came unbidden, and it terrified him. He gripped his brother's arm more tightly.
Dean rolled his head on the ground. "No. It's fading." He coughed again, and Sam helped him sit up, taking the canteen that Toby passed to him. Like Sam, he tried to drink too fast, and like Toby, Sam made him slow down. "It was no Disney ride, I remember that," he gasped, as Sam took the canteen from him and passed back to Toby.
"I don't think it was meant to be. Hence the whole 'test' thing."
"Smart ass. Help me up." Dean pulled on Sam's shoulder. "I need to walk."
Sam rose with him. "You sure that's a good idea?"
Dean rolled his head and cracked his neck. "Pins and needles, dude. Come on." He kept a hand on Sam's arm. "Where's the old man?" Sam looked around, noticing for the first time that the old man was gone.
"He's spirit walking," Toby said, bending down to pick up the dirty blanket. He flapped it, knocking the dust free. "I was told to keep an eye on you two."
"He just went off and left us like this?" Dean asked, incredulous.
"You were in no danger."
"Well, it sure as hell felt like danger!" He paused, then looked at Sam. "Didn't it?" His voice was suddenly confused.
It was disconcerting, feeling like their lives had just been in danger, but not knowing what the hell was going on. Sam sent Toby a steely look. The fear still had hold of him, and that coupled with not knowing what the hell was going on had frayed his temper. "Look, Toby, here's the deal. We've played this game long enough. Now I'm willing to bet Dean's about ready to ride out of here, and I'm gonna beat him to the car, and screw your problem!"
"Sam!" Dean cautioned in surprise.
"Your car's back at the house." Toby calmly picked up his Grandfather's bag. "You coming?"
Sam bristled, but Dean squeezed his arm and gave his head a subtle shake. So he took a deep breath and tried to calm himself. What the hell? He wasn't prone to outbursts like that. But he was on edge. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong, and he didn't want Dean to let go of his arm. He suddenly needed that physical reassurance. But Dean did let him go, and all he could do was watch the spot between his shoulder blades as they followed Toby.
Grampa was sitting out in the middle of nowhere. Toby held up a hand, and they approached him carefully, quietly, each man taking a seat near him. There was a small fire lit, not enough to create a lot of heat, but enough to throw herbs on, and he did this rhythmically, not looking up, unaware of the arrivals. His body swayed back and forth as he sang and muttered under his breath. Sam and Dean sensed the unease in the other. Toby sat still, looking impatient but obviously willing to wait it out.
When Grampa did look up, it was with sightless, white eyes. Sam jumped, and saw Dean tense beside him. Both exchanged a glance of warning, each on guard. Too many times had they seen things like this, and it rarely boded well.
"The spirits of my brothers welcome you. You have shown yourselves worthy. Is the young one here?"
Toby's mouth quirked slightly. "Not so young, Great One."
"To me, all is young. You have done well."
"I thank you." Toby bowed. His demeanor had changed into something more serious, colored by surprise, and it kept Sam and Dean on their guard.
"I have been summoned against my will."
"I'm sure Eagle Eyes did not wish that," Toby said, slowly.
The spirit, Eagle Eyes, or Grampa? turned to him. "Simon has been good to me. I will forgive him his trespass." He turned to look at each man, and his eyes were anything but bird-like. "You know why you are here."
Toby looked at Sam and Dean. "Answer him," he urged.
Sam for one was completely reluctant, and he could see that same notion etched in Dean's uncertain expression. "Sam," he muttered, "you've got the silver tongue. Talk to it."
There was nothing sliver about Sam opening his mouth, and panicking when nothing came out. Toby gave him a nod of encouragement as the spirit demanded, "Well?"
"We – know nothing. Only that we wish to help," Sam managed to say, hoping he sounded more confident that he felt. This had a different feeling from any seance he'd been to, any possession he'd seen, any otherworldly presence he'd encountered. Way different, and almost awe-inspiring. It felt. . .old.
Grampa stared him down, his white eyes unseeing and unblinking. "You offer what you do not have, to help against an enemy you can not see. Interesting. And noble. Despite your failings. I accept you." The white brightened into a glow, then faded into black as Grampa's keen eyes peered at them, unconcerned by what had happened.
"You did good, boy," he said softly. "You did good."
**********************
Summer Rain lifted the whistling kettle from the eye of the stove and poured steaming water into four chipped mugs. She swirled a tea bag into each one, and lay the string over the side. The men sat around the table, silent. It was late. The children were again in bed, and this time Dean had made it a point to check out their sleeping arrangements, so as not to be surprised in the morning. Three were sprawlers. The twins were huddled against each other. It had filled Dean with a warmth and longing he couldn't explain. Or just tried to ignore.
He played with the tea bag, dipping it in and out of the darkening brew. Nothing had been said as they broke their meager camp and headed back to the truck. Toby and Grampa simply wedged the bags behind the seats and climbed in as Dean and Sam crawled into the back of the truck. The cold metal had been a contrast to the heat of that morning, making Dean shiver. He'd sat close to Sam, looking at the stars, and at the heavy stone moon on the horizon.
Now Sam sat opposite him, elbows on the table, thumb flicking at the handle of his mug. Still nothing was said.
Summer Rain wiped down the kitchen counter, scrubbing at a stubborn stain. The cloth squeaked annoyingly as she worked. She finally flicked the towel against the edge of the sink, and turned to the silent group. "The tea okay?"
Sam looked up. "Yeah! Yeah, it's great. Thank you." He gave a sheepish grin, and raised the mug to his lips.
She smirked. "Well, I know when a lady's not wanted. I've got council in the morning, anyway." She leaned over, and gave Toby a peck on the top of his head. "You'll have to see the kids to the school bus." She crossed behind Grampa, soothing the aged shoulder in her hand. "Is that okay, Grampa?"
"Kid's gotta learn somewhere," he said without looking at her. But he reached up and gave her hand a quick squeeze.
"I'm off to bed then. Don't stay up too late, you'll miss breakfast. I can't hold the troops away like I did this morning for you men. They almost missed their bus."
"We'll be up, I promise." Toby caught her hand as she walked by, and gave the top a kiss. She smiled, and exited.
Dean watched her leave, impressed. "That's quite a woman you've got there."
Grampa answered for Toby. "She's not of the blood, but she's of the heart." He gave the first real smile Sam and Dean had seen since their arrival. "She's a good catch."
"He's got a crush," Toby muttered. "Dirty old man."
Grampa laughed.
Dean stared, then grinned in relief. So Grampa was human. Sam eased into a grateful, loud laugh, which was instantly shushed by Toby, who pointed down the hall. He settled for chuckling into his mug, his eyes glinting over the rim.
Grampa's own eyes twinkled, and he tapped the bowl of his ever-present pipe into the green glass ash tray. "Oh, Great Spirit," he sighed. "The old bones ain't what they used to be. Pass me my pouch, son. Thank you. I know you boys have questions. That trial was necessary. I had to see if you were able to handle the situation, if you were able to learn, to adapt."
"I still don't remember anything," Sam said softly.
"And you won't. You're not meant to. But it told me what I needed to know."
"And that is?" Dean asked.
Grampa pinned him with a more serious look. "That your time in hell will have no bearing on this matter, for starters."
Dean promptly spilled his tea and jumped up, shoving his chair back with a loud scrape. Sam pressed his lips together and instantly went for a towel, passing it to his brother, who in turn quickly soaked up the liquid. He glanced up, chagrined. "Sorry."
"Doesn't bother me," Grampa said, lighting his pipe and puffing. "As long as you clean it up."
Dean did, wiping at the table, the floor, his jeans. He felt like a fool, but really. "How'd you know about that, anyway?" he asked, taking his seat again. "I can't even remember things about that."
The old man looked dubious. "You been on a hunt since you got back?"
He swallowed. "Not much."
"Then you understand why I had to make sure you were capable."
"You scared I'm gonna go all POW on you or something? Start seeing demons where none exist?"
"Are you?" Grampa asked.
"No," Dean said firmly, and saw Sam watching him with an expression of uncertainty. "No! Stop looking at me like that."
"I'm not! I'm just. . ." Sam turned his head away, obviously reluctant to bring Toby and his Grandfather into such a personal situation, no matter what they knew about it. "Later, okay?"
"Yeah. Whatever." Dean sighed and leaned his elbows on the table. "So we passed your little test. Now what?"
"Now the real work begins." Grampa eased back, and tilted his chair to balance on the back two legs. "Our people are in danger."
Finally! Dean and Sam both leaned in. "What kind of danger?" Sam asked.
"I'm getting to that." The old man sighed heavily and took a metal tool, tapping at the tobacco in the pipe. "There is a legend amongst my people, and those of the Cherokee and Choctaw. I fear this legend is based in fact."
"Last week, we lost three women in our community. They vanished, wandered off, were carried off, I don't know. But each one was found dead. Their dried bones were recovered."
"Bones?" Sam said. "After a week?"
"Yes."
"Coyotes?" Dean asked, his deep voice softer than usual. "I mean I reckon they don't usually go after people but if they're hungry enough. . ."
"These bones were practically bleached. Whatever happened, happened quickly enough for the sun to have ample time to wash them out. A coyote would never eat that much that quickly, even in a pack. There would be sinew, something, left behind. These bones looked like they've been in the desert for months."
"And they were identified?"
"County coroner even had a specialist come in. It's them." He shook his head sorrowfully. "I knew them. One real well, she grew up here. The others were friends staying for a while. They didn't leave in a group. They vanished one by one, and their bones were found, one by one." He puffed heavily. "All in all, twelve women have gone missing from surrounding communities and reservations over the past two and half months. All have children. Four days ago a child wandered off, looking for her mother. She nearly died of dehydration before she was found and brought back. She couldn't even cry tears. She just yowled, like a puppy."
Dean looked at his fingers, laced together on the table. "That's terrible," he managed to say, quietly, and tried not to look down the hallway where the kid's bedrooms were.
"Is it only the women that go missing?" Sam asked.
"So far. There's terror in the community. We don't leave Summer Rain here alone. Yesterday Nana Grace was here with her, and neither were allowed to leave the house. The kids come straight off the bus, and to the house. Tomorrow she will be at council, where there are men to watch over her. They will discuss the situation." He sounded bitter. The chair set down with a thump and he leaned towards them. "The women usually work on the farms when the children are away. Already this situation is taking a toll. Some communities are so frightened that their crops are being affected. The men are scared to send the women to the fields, but most have outside jobs they can't quit. Around here, money is damned hard to come by."
It was a sorry situation. "The authorities have nothing to say?" Dean questioned.
Grampa waved the question to Toby. "They're looking for a killer," he replied. "They're leaning towards a mass-murder, some pissed off devil who has a grudge against us."
"They're calling it a hate crime?"
"Something like that. But the bones, they have no explanation for it. All the exams, the scans, whatever the hell it is they do, they're coming up empty-handed. They're clueless. And we're losing our women."
"So you think it's something supernatural," Dean said, lightly tapping his forefinger on the table top. "No offense, but if you're a Shaman with all these powers and such, can't you tell?"
"Alekcta", Sam corrected.
"Whatever." Dean's eyes were pinned to Grampa's.
He pulled the pipe from his mouth. "Boy, if I could stop it, don't you think I would?" He rose slowly. "My people are being slaughtered. Our women are dying. The heart of this community bleeds. Now don't you think if I could do something about this without bringing in the white man, I would? You've proven so helpful in the past." He chomped off the last word angrily. "It's taken a lot for me to get you here, so don't act like I haven't tried all I know!" He pounded his fist on the table, and Toby stood.
"Grampa, take it easy."
"No. I will not be accused of helplessness. I am not incapable, nor uncaring!" He shoved his chair back and walked out quickly, leaving an aura of anger in the air.
Toby glared at Dean. Dean, in turn, just lowered his head with a great sigh. "Okay, that's so not what I meant," he muttered, and rested his head on his crossed forearms.
"Look, it's not personal," Toby insisted. "We've been having trouble with the state authorities. Grampa feels the case isn't being given due consideration. The police are leaning towards hate-crimes, mass murders, gang violence. They're throwing out theories, nothing more."
"That many go missing and they're not saying anything concrete?" Dean demanded.
"They're doing something. Just not fast enough to satisfy Grampa. He's got other ideas."
"Dean," Sam urged, "you gotta talk to him. Apologize. Clear this up."
"I know." Muffled. Regretful.
"Now. Go after him. I don't think we've got much time here."
Dean raised his head to see Sam's anxiety clear on his face. "What are you talking about, Shirley?"
"Please. Just go talk to him. I think he went outside, I heard the door."
Dean pulled himself to lean back in his chair, and sighed again. "Fine. But don't be surprised if the vultures aren't picking at my bones out there."
"Not funny, Dean."
"Not meant to be, Sam." He rose reluctantly. The thought of a one-on-one with the medicine man turned his stomach, even if he was obviously 'forgiven' his stint down under.
Grampa was outside, smoke curling from his pipe, eyes fixed to the moon overhead. Dean cleared his throat behind a fist and cautiously approached. "Can't believe how huge that thing looks out here," he said.
"Always looks bigger here," Grampa said.
"Yeah. Not much to block the view, I guess." Dean stepped carefully until he was at the old man's shoulder. "Look," he cleared his throat again nervously, "about what I said back there, I'm sorry. Really. I shouldn't be questioning you like that."
"That was a perfectly reasonable, intelligent question. Just because I can't answer it doesn't mean you should apologize." His words came out slow, his tone hard.
"Still." Dean gave a nod and looked down. He scuffed his heel in the dirt. "But you have to know something more about what's going on. You know, if we're here."
He exhaled loudly through his nose. "I have a theory. I've told only Toby. He thought I was crazy, but he got you two to come, so I guess it has some credence."
Work mode was the best tactic to take. "So it's not natural, this thing that's happening. Is it demonic? Some sort of desert creature? I mean, I know we're not in the desert, but it sure feels like it."
"This land isn't as fertile as it used to be. Been tilled too much over the years, yet the government sees fit to keep us here. We get food vouchers which amount to nothing."
Dean felt uncomfortable discussing politics with the old man. He cleared his throat, again. Must be the air. "Look, if Sam and I are gonna help you, if we're gonna do this, you've gotta give us a little more to go on, you know? I don't like flying into things blind, and I sure as hell don't want Sam to."
"You mean like that little deal you made? That wasn't flying blind, boy?"
Dean tensed. "Like you, I had a theory." He stood in front of the shaman. "How the hell do you know about that, anyway?"
"I talked to the spirits."
Seriously? "Okay. I'm not sure I like every unearthly thing knowing my business. What'd they say?"
"Toby mentioned you two. I went to the spirit world and asked who you were."
Dean grinned, in spite of himself. "Why, you sly dog. You got our resume!"
"Yes."
"So, apparently you were impressed enough with it to get us down here."
"Who wouldn't be impressed by someone pulled from hell?"
"Then tested us to see if we were legit, or if we were some evil incarnate. I mean, you wanted to know if I was."
"In a manner of speaking."
Dean studied him closely. "What the hell do you think we're fighting?" he asked quietly, almost scared of the answer.
Simon Redhand, Grampa, look at him solemnly. "You'll find out. Tomorrow."
