The Mvskoke people were everywhere. They had many families. They traded, they battled, they kept an eye on their neighbors, namely the Cherokee. They broke into tribes, which in turn broke into more tribes. They covered the land like newly laid grass, streaming out in all directions, claiming their territory. They were powerful. They were special.
They hated storms.
Chief Alush peeked outside his hut, wincing against the sudden rain. Such swiftness was not a good omen. The spirits were offended. He wondered briefly if the water would rise in the low lands, if the corn fields would flood. The stalks were already wilting in the heat. Rain would be good for them, but if it beat down the stalks the corn would need to be gathered out of the mud, and quickly. He tried to remember how many men were sent away on the hunting party, how many remained available to pick the corn.
The wind turned and drove rain into his hut. He lowered the flap, then set about making a small fire in the back corner, which served as a brazier. Heated some water, tossed in some herbs and leaves. Waited for the tea to boil before removing it from the flame. He poured a small amount on the ground just outside his doorway as an offering of penance for having somehow offended the gods. The rain subsided, just a little.
He sat crossed legged, and finished off the rest.
After an hour the rain eased into a thin drizzle. The heat started to build again, making the air thick around him as he walked out, surveying his village for damage from the storm. His brothers were out, running hands over the sides of their huts, shielding their eyes to look up at the thatched roofs, or walking to the farmyard to check on the few cattle they had acquired. Some wore breeches and boots, bare-chested. Others wore very little against the heat. The women emerged, clothed in dresses, some aproned, some not. All made sure everything was intact, and pointed and chattered about the things that weren't.
Chief Alush pointed to a young boy, Nameesh, and ordered him to check on the corn. The lad ran off, his loincloth flapping around thin hips. Alush stood outside his hut, arms folded, and watched his people recover. If his help was needed, they would let him know.
He was fairly young himself for a tribal chief. Their tribe was a fairly new one, having branched from his father's and Alush had been proven a competent negotiator, which vaulted him to his position as the leader of this tribe rather than helping to oversee the people governed by his father. So many separate tribes were forming that the older ways were breaking down. Everything was spreading. Becoming more complicated. There were cases where negotiators were needed more so than blood.
Zertepe, the tribal Medicine Man, was watching the activity from his own hut. His arms too were crossed, still thick and muscular despite his age. His dark eyes met Alush, and he nodded once.
Alush granted him access by waving him over. Though he was one of the few individuals that was allowed free access to the chief's hut, he knew the Medicine Man generally respected the authority of the younger by waiting until he was invited. It wasn't always the case, but more often than not.
Zertepe squelched his way through the mud, barefoot. He didn't dare wear his boots in the muck. "You look apprehensive."
"I do not like the suddenness of the storm."
Zertepe nodded. "Not good. Too sudden, too violent. Trees have fallen in the distance."
"And the corn?"
"I saw you send a boy to find out."
"But what do you know?" Alush pushed his friend.
"We are not punished. The corn survived."
"Then what of the storm?"
Zertepe inhaled deeply. "Balance restored where it was interrupted. We will have guests."
Alush's eyes widened. "Really, old man? From which tribe? And why would that disturb the balance of things?"
"The balance is no longer disturbed. The storm god took care of that. And they are not of a tribe."
"You have seen them?"
Zertepe nodded. "In a set of stones. They sit and wait."
"We should send someone after them."
"The god did not wish it."
Alush frowned unhappily and returned his focus to his people.
Zertepe sighed and followed his gaze. "Either way, it is a bad sign. I would be wary."
"I will be. And what of you?"
"I have bones. I will see what they show me." He sniffed the wind. "The Dazzler has spoken. I can smell the char from here."
"I have several parties out."
"You mean you have several rapidly returning." He pointed to a distant path.
Alush let his arms drop in concern, his eyes narrowing on the distant men running up the hill and back into the village. The boy was leading the way, having already taken stock of the corn.
"Stay here," Alush commanded. "I want you with me to hear their tale."
Zertepe took three steps closer to him, standing at his shoulder as he watched the approach. "You sense it too, Alush, do you not? The change in the wind."
"All I know is I see the whites of their eyes, like spooked horses. I will hear what they have to say before I blame the wind."
The party arrived with panted breaths and heaving chests. Several doubled over, hands on their shaky knees as they fought to inhale the thickening wet air. Sweat poured from them, leaving trails over their dusty backs.
Alush stepped forward in disgust. "You look like swine," he complained. "My hunter and warrior clan are better than this. What has you fleeing like frightened old women?" His voice was stern, but not cruel.
Akecheta, the leader of the warrior men, stepped forward. He straightened, his chin raised, his eyes glinting. He wasn't much younger than Alush. "Two strange men. In the wood. We tried to take them, but the Dazzler kicked out at a tree and they got away."
"What two men? What tribe?"
"Not of a tribe. One was dark, like he could be. The other looked like the Sketwa that travel over the waters. Both were unclothed."
"Escaped?"
"They looked frightened. It is possible."
"Are they a danger to us?"
Akecheta looked chagrined. "We did not have them long enough to know. The Dazzler stripped us of our prize."
Alush winced briefly. "This is not good news. Clean up, then. What of our crops?"
"They survived," the boy, Nameesh, answered respectfully. "We do not need to shorten their time."
"That is well." Alush waved his hand at them, and they departed. He let his gaze linger on Akecheta. The warrior gave a bow, took two steps back, and joined the other men.
"It is not like him to let one get away," Alush muttered.
"The Dazzler had other things in mind. Now let me attend. I will have answers for you, the spirits willing."
"Go." Alush didn't watch his friend retreat into his hut. Instead, he turned his eyes to the hills, and stood silently. If the Dazzler protected these intruders, there had to be a reason. But the Chief was young enough, and foolish enough, to believe that if they were a threat, protection or not, they would be dealt with by him, accordingly.
He signaled one of his men to fetch Akecheta, giving orders for his warrior leader to return to him once he was cleaned.
Sacred protection or no. The men would be found.
*************************
Dean woke with a start, shivering. The sky was dark, the area around him even more so. As his eyes adjusted, he noticed a faint sliver of moonlight finding it's way inside, coming to rest on his sleeping brother. Sam was curled on the ground beside him, his injured knee was an angry shade of red around the wrap. Dean winced and reached out to check the skin for infection, then darted a glance toward the opening between the two rocks. He heard voices. Very low, very hungry voices. For a moment he debated waking Sam, and decided any noise made by his waking to pain would give them away. He knew how Sam woke. It wasn't an easy thing. And seeing how he was facing the stone wall, he'd probably smack his kneecap into it, and wouldn't that just betray their hiding place?
There was the sound again, like a footstep crunching in the leaves. He had no doubt the men he saw earlier were excellent trackers, and that their number was up.
Grabbing Sam's shoulder had the promised reaction, but Dean's hand over Sam's mouth muffled it. Wide eyes met Dean's and he nodded. Dean slowly took his hand away and pointed outside. Again, the voices were heard. There was a rustle, and shadows in the moonlight. Dean slowly rocked forward on his hands and knees to peer out, and stared into a pair of glittering eyes.
It was enough to make him curse out loud. And here he was worrying that Sam would give their position away? He threw up his hands in surrender and scurried back against the wall as the small space filled with men carrying weapons, aimed right at them. "Whoa, whoa, wait!" he cried out hoarsely. "Okay! Easy! I promise, we're not gonna hurt you, okay? Let's all just take it easy!" He tried to shuffle closer to Sam, but his way was blocked. He was pushed to the ground, a spear aimed at his throat.
"Sketwa," the man said, jabbing the sharp point at him. Gestured with his spear towards
Dean's. . .
"Hey, whoa!" Dean's hands went to the defense. "Ske-twa. Got it. Right." He nodded, and pointed to himself. "Sketwa." He had no idea what it meant, for all he knew the man could be calling him rat piss, or berating his mother, or proposing marriage. But he repeated the word, showing that he was willing to listen even if he had no fucking clue what they were talking about.
The man looked fierce, but for a moment a flicker of something else crossed his face. Amusement, maybe? He spat out, "Sehewa."
"Se – hewa," Dean repeated.
The man laughed, and the others laughed with him. They started yelling out words that Dean couldn't catch, but he could tell from the snickers and jeers that they weren't good things. Dean had made himself a parrot, and they were teaching him naughty things. At least they hadn't pierced his heart. Yet.
Sam said nothing, just looked on in confusion, with maybe a hint of an uncertain smile.
Dean slowly, very slowly, pushed himself to a seated position. His left arm moved, and he took the water skin, then slowly passed it to the man in front of him, who apparently recognized it. He snatched it away, and Dean's hands flew back up. "Sorry. And uh, sorry about the shirt." He gestured open-handed to Sam's knee. Sam's lips pressed together in response.
The man with the spear didn't look happy, nor did he look threatening. He passed the spear to a man just behind him and crouched in front of Sam, eyeing the wound. One hand reached out, and Sam pressed back into the rock. The hand stopped, then slowly withdrew. Without knowing, Sam had proven that they didn't trust him, as he didn't trust them. Which put them on some sort of odd, equal ground.
The man rose. He spoke, circling his finger at the items in the dirt, then indicating that they should come with him. Weapons were put away, still within sight, but more carried than pointed. It was an offer, and Dean accepted. He and Sam rose slowly, gathered what was left of the stolen bags, and ducked out between the rocks. Dean held on to Sam's arm and guided him back down the rocky slope.
They stumbled and cursed their bare feet for a good hour or more, then finally emerged from the woodlands into a small village. Thatched-roof huts curled around the interior of the land. Children called out to each other and screamed in delight as they ran circles around the women who were hunched as they tended to their work in the center. Heads gradually bobbed up to look at the new arrivals, some women pointing and smiling, others looking away. One young woman peeked shyly from beneath a shield of raven-colored hair. It glistened over her sharp features like a dark river.
Dean made it a point to hold his head up as he walked. He could feel blood trickling down his sweaty body, and in turn he could feel the sweat licking at his scratches, stinging them. Trying to wipe away the forest debris that clung to him was proving fruitless, and he caught himself wondering how these people didn't drag half of nature around with them, like a magnet attracting metal shavings.
Sam little better off. He was filthy, and after their long hike, limping pitifully. Once on flat land he wouldn't let Dean help him, obviously not wanting to show any weakness in front of these men, but had it been another time he would have probably continued to accept Dean's arm. He couldn't flex his knee, and the wrap was warm with blood.
They stopped before a large hut. In the lower distance, the moon shone brightly over rows of crops, mostly corn. The storm had cleared the air, leaving a distinct green, earthy smell. It was calming, and beautiful, and Dean would have loved to enjoy it, except for the whole fear-for-his- well-being going on. He waited as the leader of the band ducked inside, then emerged before a taller man, one who hesitated in his doorway before slowly approaching him.
He wasn't just physically tall. He carried himself tall. Dark eyes met Sam's evenly, then glanced down to his. A deep red turban circled his head in layers. He wore a vest of leather over an open shirt, revealing a toned, muscular chest. His breeches were soft and flowed around his legs. He was barefoot.
And he showed interest in Sam.
Dean forced himself to remain still as a thin yet strong-looking hand stroked through his brother's hair, looking at the strands. A thumb planted itself beneath his chin and raised it, the jawline studied, the eyes scrutinized. The skin on the forearm was pinched. Dean was surprised they didn't examine his teeth.
Then it was his turn.
Turban man walked around him in a slow circle. Dean did his best to stand something close to military style, his shoulders back, his head high. He ignored the fact that he was naked. Compared to some of the men he could see, there was nothing to be ashamed of. And heck, the air was chilly anyway. It was obvious that a comparison was being made between the brothers, Sam's darker features and eyes, their father's traits, compared to his own lighter complexion and eyes, from their mother's side. Sam did seem to fit in more. Dean hadn't realized until that moment how different their looks really were, enough to make him wonder if they had Indian blood in them, and if Sam got it all while he was stuck with the European blend. Hell, even Sam's eyes were more narrow than his own.
Turban man backed off and signaled to another man, one with his long hair pulled back and a single feather tucked in at the side. They talked briefly, and the feathered man knelt down before Sam, putting a hand to his knee. Sam flinched, but otherwise remained still. The man stood, and nodded.
Turban man stepped forward. "You bring The Dazzler to us," he said in broken speech. "Why?"
Dean wasn't sure which surprised him more, the question or the fact that he understood it. "The Dazzler?"
"Why?"
Why what? "I don't understand."
"Come from sky." Turban man pointed up, then zig-zagged his finger downwards.
"Lightning," Sam said quietly. "We didn't. I mean, we can't do that."
"The Dazzler freed you."
Sam and Dean exchanged a glance. "I think that was a coincidence," Dean said.
The man frowned at a word he didn't understand. "You are not here for trade," the man said. "Why are you?"
Well, wasn't that the million dollar question. He glanced back at Sam. "Maybe we came for clothes."
Narrow eyes thinned further. His thin arm snaked out, and a bony hand snatched Dean's wrist, pulling his arm outward. The skin on his forearm was pinched. "Hvtke. You are like the colony."
"Ow!" Dean hissed back a curse and pulled his limb back, rubbing the pain away. "What do you mean, colony?"
"You are from settlement?"
His speech was choppy, but he spoke well. It confused Dean even more. All this confused him, the sudden appearance of lush forests, the half naked men surrounding him, never mind his and his brother's own lack of dignity. He felt his heart beating quickly and continued to rub at his arm, using the sensation of his hand over skin to ground him. "We just got here." He had no idea what to say to the man.
He lifted his chin. He wasn't happy, which was fine, because Dean wasn't either.
"We, uh, lost our way," Dean replied, gesturing to Sam. "We're lost."
Turban man puzzled over Dean's meaning, and exchanged more with Feather man. "Your injury needs help." Sam lowered his head slightly, making it known that he wasn't trusting, but that the fact remained that walking was literally a pain. "You will go with Zertepe."
"What about my brother?" Sam asked.
"He will stay."
Sam gave his head an almost imperceptible shake. Dean could see the tension in the set of his jaw. "That's not good enough."
Alush stepped forward. "We need not help you. He will stay."
Dean glanced at Sam. He brother needed help, but – "Hey, wait a minute!" Dean exclaimed as the man gently led Sam away. "We don't get to talk about this?" He felt hands close on his biceps. His anxiety raised a notch, if that were possible. Much higher and he'd blow the top off the meter
"He will go!" Turban man said sternly. He jabbed a finger towards Dean. "You will wait." And he waved Dean away, turning to his hut and disappearing inside. Feather man gave him a once-over, then turned.
Dean was escorted away.
*************************
"They don't trust you."
Dean raised his head. A man was standing in the doorway of the tiny hut he had been thrust into several hours earlier. He knew it was late, but was too tense to sleep. So he waited for something to happen. Anything. This wasn't jail, not really, despite the guards in front of the door holding scary-looking spears and an expression that was worse. But they didn't hesitate to let this man in, and even stood aside from their guard duty, according to the lack of shadow. What was Feather Man's name? Zeppo? "Thanks for the newsflash. Where's Sam?"
"Resting. Knee's sewn closed."
"You speak English."
"I do. Alush does. Some others." Zertepe walked into the hut and made himself comfortable.
Dean nodded and let his gaze drift toward the far wall. "If I ask where we are, you're gonna think I'm crazy."
"You were sent. You are not crazy." Zertepe leaned forward. "I saw your arrival. A flash of light, and there you were. Both of you. In the forest." He gestured down his body with his hand.
"Yeah, about that," Dean looked down uncomfortably, "as much as I generally like to impress the ladies, I'm not so sure about the men. Got any pants?"
"They don't trust you."
"We covered that."
"You are adolescent, must prove you are a man."
Dean leaned forward slowly. "Excuse me? Adolescent? Buddy, I can assure you there is nothing adolescent about me."
Again, Zertepe gestured. "You have skin of the white man. Your friend does not."
"He's my brother. My baby brother. He's got our Dad's . . ." Dean sighed heavily and leaned back against the wall of the hut, looking away. "Where are we?" he asked in a low voice.
"Mvskoke territory."
"And where is that?"
Zertepe spread his hands. "Here."
"Right, right, fine. Then when are we? Cause there's nothing about this that's modern, you know? Even the air smells different." It was something he'd wondered while sitting, trying to come up with a plan, or reason, or just figuring out what the hell was going on. "And look at you. No one dresses like that, except for those ceremony things. Or rain dances."
Zertepe looked confused, and Dean suddenly felt he had the upper hand. "Oh, come on! No newspaper with you? No calendar? Nothing? You have no idea, do you? Oh god, I just proved my point. You didn't keep track of a calendar year, not like. . .oh christ." Dean checked himself, then sat back and pulled at his face with a hard downward swipe. It didn't help. "How'd the hell he do it? I thought this was supposed to be a spirit walk or something." His head thumped back. "Bastard pulled a Doc Brown on us, and I'm stuck in freakin' Dances With Wolves."
"Who is 'he'?"
"Grampa. Uh. . .Simon Redhand. Eagle Eyes, for all I know. Glad I don't have all those names to keep up with."
"Then there is an important question to answer. Why are you here?"
Dean met his gaze evenly. "To stop something bad from happening. But it's supposed to be there, not here." His eyes roamed. "Something went wrong. His damned mojo's blown up in his face. Unbelievable." He met the other's eyes. "I want to see Sam."
"He is resting."
Dean slowly rose. "He can rest just fine with me there."
"You are not permitted."
"Bullshit I'm not permitted! I'm his brother! Thought you people were all about kinfolk!" He paced, then headed toward the door. "Screw this."
"You will not leave."
"Try and stop me." Dean was halfway out, throwing the words over his shoulder. And found himself back against the far wall, the breath crushed from his lungs, his vision swimming. He was vaguely aware of Zertepe standing over him, one hand coming to rest on his forehead.
"You must rest."
"No. . ." but he was fading, fast. "What've you done . . ."
"He is watching," the voice said in the distance.
************************
Three days later, Dean didn't feel any better about things.
He and Sam were facing the edge of the woods. Sam carried a large, thin knife that looked like an anorexic machete. Dean, well, he was holding a friggin' bow and arrow. It was a bit different from a crossbow. His aim was good, damned good, good enough to impress the otherwise stoic warriors watching him. His technique? Not so great. His inner arm bore several marks of failed attempts. But throwing knives? Ran circles around the bastards. So why was Sam holding the big knife, while he had the useless crap?
"Good practice," was all Alush offered, with a smirk.
No matter the time period, there would always be a bastard. At least they gave the white man a weapon. That had to mean something.
Especially considering the tension that was felt when white traders crossed close to the village. Dean wasn't allowed out of his hut, but was able to peer through the flap at the events. Alush spoke to them very briefly, very on his guard, then made sure they cleared the area. Dean had noticed several warriors in strategic places around the village, and he assumed in the bush, just in case things got messy. The distrust was thick in the air. The hatred was thicker. Dean was beginning to understand why they looked at him like they did, why his nights were interrupted by kids throwing small stones into his hut, hoping to hit him. Sam had yet to join him back in the hut. He stayed near the medicine man, who was overseeing his healing. Dean had a deeper feeling that they were kept separated for another reason.
Sam stood at his shoulder, his knee bent uncomfortably, the sole of his doeskin boot barely resting on the ground. He'd said nothing to Dean when he approached him, and it was all Dean could do not to run to his brother, check out the injury for himself, and take him out of this place. But they hadn't been threatened. They were alive. And it looked like they were being given a chance to. . .do something.
He was all up for that. Especially after staring at those grass walls for days on end, or whatever the hell they were. He'd go hunting with a damn toothpick if it meant a measure of freedom.
Several more joined the group, some his age, many younger. The boys were dressed in loincloths, like himself. The men wore breeches. Dean tried not to glance down at his meager covering, tried to contain his sigh. Now he understood. He was dressed like a boy, because he hadn't proven himself a man. Should've gone to Florida, dammit, got that tan. 'Cause he did tan. A little. Course it bleached his hair. He glanced at Sam's features, and for the first time in his life cursed his mother's Scots lineage.
Seriously. A freakin' loincloth?
A hand pressed to his back, and they were off. No ceremony, no nothing. Just gone.
Dean managed to ease beside Sam for a moment before. "You okay?" he asked, barely above a whisper.
"Yeah."
GOD hearing Sam's voice was wonderful. "How come you get clothes?"
"Apparently I'm the better looking one after all."
"Or they want to hide that stupidly lanky body. You're like as tall as two of them standing on each other's shoulders."
"And yet they're not bothered by that. Whereas you. . ."
"I hear the chick dig things like this."
"Remind me to get you some thongs."
"Oh, BITE ME."
an older man squeezed between them and steered Dean to his left. He caught Sam's eye as he veered, and felt much better seeing the quirk in his expression, something that was uniquely Sam. Like soft amusement.
And again. Damn the loincloth.
They broke off into two groups, Dean with one and Sam with the other. He recognized one of the warriors with him, Akecheta. The others he'd seen, but made no attempt to talk to. It was easy, seeing as how if he wasn't stared at, he was ignored. Akecheta had given him a challenging glance or two, nothing with malice, but more of one hunter recognizing another. It was probably this familiarity that drove the man to Dean's side, to stick with him.
His group broke up into twos and threes. Akecheta pressed against Dean's shoulder and angled him to the west, towards thicker growth. Dean sent him an incredulous look, he was hardly protected enough to go into the growth, but there wasn't much choice. He gritted his teeth, and followed. They hurried forward, Dean close behind Akecheta. He skidded to a halt, colliding with the other man's back, jerking his head as Akecheta's hand flew up. They crouched in a small ditch, practically laying on the earth, and waited.
Something dark and heavy crashed through the bushes and sailed over their heads.
"Holy – !" Dean rose, but Akecheta was faster. He charged after the beast, from Dean's perspective chasing a shadow that was rapidly getting away from them. The warrior gave a whoop, and in the distance others answered.
The figure before him zig-zagged along paths that weren't really there, and Dean did his best to follow. Trees blurred beside him. He ran, bare feet flying over the ground, stumbling, gaining, free. Elation filled him. He yelled out, driving himself onward toward the shadow that was slowing.
A startled cry cut his off, and he almost stopped from the shock of knowing that voice. He'd heard it too many times before. He saw Akecheta raise his spear. "No! Wait!"
The spear flew, and hit home. There was an outraged growl that ended in another cry. Akecheta and Dean emerged into a clearing as other men joined them. Dean took one look, and fell to his knees beside Sam, half pinned underneath the dying animal.
"Dammit! Help me!" The demand wasn't needed, as everyone joined together to free his brother. Sam's face was twisted in pain, the boar half across his chest as though it had barreled into Sam right as it was hit. He put both hands to the beast and shoved hard, rocking it to the side but not budging it. The head whipped around at him, then barred teeth at Sam's throat.
Akecheta's hands were wrapped in leather, and he gripped the muzzle as several others grabbed the boar's legs. Dean shoved again, and they hoisted the animal off Sam, who immediately turned to his side, curled in on himself, hacking.
"Sam!" Dean clutched his arm and shuffled around the body, searching Sam's face.
"Damn thing's like a car," Sam wheezed.
"You ever had a car land on you?"
"No. Bet it feels like that."
The boar was a safe distance away. Blood and spittle flowed from the slack mouth. Akecheta leaned over Sam and turned him onto his back, gently pressing at his ribs. Sam groaned. Dean took a step back as his brother was pulled to his feet and steadied. Akecheta gave a nod to Dean and rejoined his men.
Dean instantly took Akecheta's place at Sam's side. "You okay?" He pressed his own hand against Sam's ribs, feeling the uneasy breathing through his palm and fingers.
"Yeah," Sam replied shakily, trying to keep himself upright. "Don't care for a repeat performance, though."
"Me either. Let's get you back." Dean took a step, only one step, before he heard something – odd. Something abnormal. Something nearby. Even the other men stopped binding the legs of the boar to listen. Heads turned, attentions perked. Akecheta stood slowly.
The hissing grew in volume, echoing all around them, bending around the trees. Wide-eyed, Dean took a step from Sam, only to see Akecheta hit the ground and start skidding.
Something was dragging him. Something unseen.
His warriors were frozen to the spot, but Dean jumped forward, sensing Sam behind him. He dove and hit the ground on his stomach, grabbing Akecheta's hands as the man swept by, feeling the jarring halt of the warrior's body before he started sliding with him. Sam's weight crashed onto the backs of his legs. His shoulder joints screamed. Akecheta's terrified eyes met his, and Dean read their meaning clearly. Don't let go.
"I got you, man, I got you." Dean looked over his shoulder. "Sam, get the bow!"
He was vaguely aware of Sam's head whipping up. "What? Are you crazy?"
"Now!"
"I'm not letting you go!"
He was sliding forwards anyway, very subtly, and he couldn't hold on. "Sam!" The weight left his legs, and he immediately slipped along the ground. Akecheta cried out, and Dean called out over him, "Now, Sam!"
Sam set the arrow in the bow, aimed, and let loose. There was a distant shriek, and all motion stopped.
"Again!" Dean yelled, gathering himself while trying to pull Akecheta to his feet.
Sam set another bow and let it loose into the trees. A distant wail chilled Dean to his bones. Then there was nothing but the sound of a distant crashing in the foliage, and the heavy breaths of frightened men.
************************
Akecheta's chest was torn. The warrior was guided to the medicine man's tent with Alush close behind, asking questions of the men who tagged along. Sam and Dean watched for a moment before Sam was carefully guided away. Dean felt his heart race in anger, and he stormed back to his own hut. He wiped down his face with the edge of the door flap and walked further in. What did these people want from him? His brother could have been killed. Akecheta nearly was. What the hell did they want?
A shadow behind him made him turn. A boy was there, probably eight or ten years old, and on his upturned palms he held two thin layers of clothing.
Dean slowly took the clothes from the boy. One unfolded into a shirt, the other, breeches. He gave a nod of thanks. The boy smiled and hurried away.
Well.
He glanced down at the shredded loincloth and winced. Not much to remove, not that there was much covering anyway. The leather had done a pretty good job protecting him, all things considered, but he was still careful when pulling on the soft pants. While certain areas seemed relatively unscathed, and thank God for that, his abdomen and chest was torn, though not as badly as Akecheta's. He eased the shirt over his shoulder and left the front open. Yet another shadow appeared, and he turned his head.
It was the woman he'd first seen, the one with raven black hair. She peered at him from underneath its long veil, her dark eyes probing his, but shyly. In her hand she held a small bowl of water, and a cloth.
Dean licked at his bottom lip, and sucked it in, biting on it. He wished he hadn't been dragged across the ground, because. . .on the other hand, apparently that was why she was here.
She walked in slowly, not looking at him, and set her bowl down. Gestured for him to sit on the small blanket folded in the corner of the hut. Dean did, and she set about making a small fire. He watched her long arms dart in and out of her brown robe. With one hand she swept back her long hair and secured it with what looked like polished bone, accomplishing the feat with one swift, twisting motion that mesmerized him. Rocks were arranged around the fire, and the bowl was set on the largest, flattest one.
She looked up at him, slowly. His breath hitched.
She rose just as slowly. Knelt before him. He felt his heart pounding, which was insane but there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it. And her hands were right there, pulling open his shirt to fully expose his chest wounds. His stomach fluttered. She guided him to lay on his back, and he did, his eyes not leaving her face.
She returned with the bowl. Reached deep into the folds of her robe and pulled out three leaves, which she dropped into the warm water. The air soon filled with an herbal scent that made Dean drowsy, and he didn't want to be drowsy. He wanted to enjoy this. The first sting of the medicinal cloth pressed to his skin made him change his mind, and he grunted loudly, his eyes widening before he forced them closed. He exhaled harshly as she moved to another wound. What the hell were those leaves? Christ! He felt like he was being flayed by the ground all over again.
She worked for a while, dipping the cloth in the medicine and pressing it to his chest. He grew used to the sting and instead concentrated on the smell, and her hair tickling his skin. Blinking eyes showed her in profile, her proud chin, high forehead, glistening hair. Slowly, so slowly, he saw his hand drift up to touch it.
She jumped, and backed away.
"No, no, I'm sorry, God, I'm so sorry." Dean sat up, one hand raised in reassurance. He made no move towards her. In fact, he backed away slightly, to prove he wasn't a threat. "I didn't meant to scare you. Please." He slowly turned his hand over as an offering to her.
She dipped her head and quickly gathered her things, then left the tent.
**********************
"No salt gun. No book of – just, no book! Period! We don't even have Dad's journal. Now how the hell are we supposed to kill something supernatural with nothing?" Dean paced in his hut. He was already annoyed that he'd scared off the woman, and his wounds wasn't helping matters.
"Surely the shaman has something."
Dean spun. "Sam, if the shaman could take care of this thing then why the hell are we here? I don't know, don't they hand down their craft or somethin'? Gramps should be able to do something about all this, or find out, I mean hell, he sent us here! You telling me that mojo that powerful can't take this thing down?"
"Maybe he doesn't know what 'this thing' is," Sam responded.
"He knew enough to send us here!"
"I don't know, Dean! All I know is what we've got, right now!"
"Which is a whole lot of nothing! So, what do we do? Go talk to the shaman? Tell him there's something in the woods and we have no clue what it is, but we've gotta kill it?"
"And see if he has anything we can use." Sam turned and gave Dean a frank look.
Dean stopped and stared at the ground, hands on his hips. He thought for several minutes before speaking. "Okay, look. We need to tap into their lore. Find out what brought that thing here in the first place, you know, once we figure out what the hell it is."
"Yeah, just don't refer to it as 'lore' around them, okay?"
"Right." Dean squinted off into the distance. "Wonder what Bobby would think of this one."
"He'd probably drain the county of water trying to prove to himself that we're not insane."
"I don't think holy water cures insanity."
"You ever known that to stop Bobby?"
"Point."
"So, the sooner we talk to him, the better."
"Who, Bobby?"
"No, idiot. The Shaman."
"Yeah, okay. Right behind ya."
Sam nodded. "Course there's the small matter of how to bring it up."
"Oh, that? That's easy. 'Hey, we're from your future, we're here to help.' Sounds like a bad version of Ghost Hunters."
"You do realize. . ."
"Don't even say it. Bet half their gadgets don't work anyway."
"Wonder what Missouri thinks of that show."
"We should ask her." Dean grabbed Sam's arm. "After we finish up here, and find out how the hell to get back."
"Dean, you think if we kill the creature here, we kill it there?"
"God knows. Let's try."
"I'll talk to Zertepe."
"Good idea. I'll catch up."
"Whoa, wait. We're are you going?"
Dean sighed. "I need to think, Sam."
"You want company?"
"Oh, come on, Sam," Dean muttered. "Give a man some privacy, huh?"
********************
The river was far below him, too far to hope to accomplish any fishing from the path. The only thing he could do was to climb down, which was challenging enough in his slick boots. The lack of things to grab hold of made the decent more hazardous, and Dean cursed every yard. He cursed the damn thing out in the woods that tried to take Akecheta. He cursed the fact that he had to come here, out in the middle of nowhere, to do the impossible. And screw getting back. He slipped and crashed through a bush before skidding to a stop four feet above a small bank. He wanted his Impala. Diners. Traffic lights, his gun, his jacket would be nice. He wanted his arsenal. So what did he have? An arrow.
He grunted miserably and sat on the soggy bank, knees drawn, heels planted in the soft soil. Why the hell he even came down here, he didn't know, but it wasn't to fish. He couldn't fish. Not without a line. He pulled the stone arrowhead out of the one pocket his breeches had, and studied it, turning it over and over with his fingers. Leaned forward and glanced at the water below him. Grabbed a small, straight branch that was knocked loose, yanked a piece of leather fringe from the side of his breeches (chintzy, but at least it was a slight decoration, not that sort of thing that went all the way down his leg) and did his best to wrap the arrowhead to the end of the stick. He surveyed his work with a critical eye, then unwrapped the leather and slid onto his stomach, trailing the piece into the water. The pulled the soaked leather taut, and again wrapped the arrowhead to the stick, this time fastening it more securely. There. Much better. He slid onto his stomach once more, and watched carefully, his chin firmly set. Let the hunting instinct take over.
Stabbed. Missed.
The river was probably too fast to be able to stab a fish. He shifted and slid into the water, yelping at the unexpected cold. His pants became a second skin, and heavy, threatening to slide from his thin hips. He hitched them up with one hand, his eyes tracking the water.
Stabbed. Missed.
His nostrils flared in anger, and he refocused.
Stabbed. Fell backwards into the water. Emerged, sputtering, gasping, and fell under again.
The cold soaked through his skin and into the sudden burn in his shoulder. The burn flared into mind-numbing agony and he grabbed at it, then opened his mouth to cry out. Water rushed in. His heart jumped in panic, he closed his mouth, eyes wide, but his air was gone and he couldn't fine the surface. His eyes opened.
The water was black.
