Derrick cursed himself for every kind of fool as he cut slivers of quail into smaller bites that could be managed by the sole child at the table. Not that Dean Winchester needed help with cutting meat, on the contrary he had the best knife handling skills of anyone there, but being compelled to eat with one hand chained to the chair arm complicated matters. Derrick didn't even mind that he was playing nursemaid to the kid's dinner. That was actually a bit entertaining as Dean clearly didn't appreciate the help. No, what had Derrick fuming was how utterly stupid he'd been the last few days. All the evidence had been sitting right in front of him for days and he had still let Bill convince him witches didn't exist.
To make matters worse, he couldn't just leave. He had enough police warrants against him that the only way to leave Abigail's protection would be to completely disappear. The money from selling the Winchester brat was supposed to provide that opportunity, but now it looked like all he'd gotten out of that little adventure was incisor imprints in his ear. He should've recognized the counterfeit money before he got back in that boat, but he hadn't. If he ever got loose from here, he was getting that rugrat back. As soon as he got done fixing this blasted dinner plate, anyway. Like a kid was going to eat wine braised quail and parmesan crusted asparagus anyway.
Dean had zero interest in the food, high brow or otherwise. He supposed he should be starving, but his mind couldn't leave Sammy. Sammy had been hungry, too, had been asking Dean for water. Water Dean never gave him; his little brother had died thirsty. Over the last hour Dean's grief had been congealing into a desire for revenge. The strength he was going to need for that was the only thing that allowed him to reach for the crystal goblet and bring water to his lips. He still didn't want to live without his brother; still knew he was going to die tonight. He'd simply decided he wasn't dying alone.
The sips of water were clearing Dean's head, settling the nausea of his concussion. He needed to remember everything his dad had ever told him about killing witches. There were different kinds, of course, but fire and beheading seemed to factor in as possibilities for pretty much all of them. Beheading was the surest bet, but he didn't see a way to pull that off. Assuming he somehow freed himself, he had multiple targets to deal with and a few measley steak knives. Fire could theoretically be done whether he got free or not and certainly could kill more than one person at a time. It also happened to scare the hell out of Dean, but he was going to have put that aside.
Candles abounded on the table, but there was no clear way to reach them. Dean's eyes wandered back to the food, reassessing it as weapons potential rather than edibles. Hmmm, steak knife, that obviously had some potential even if it wouldn't sever a neck. Something that looked like skinny onion rings sat two places down and several bottles of wine had been opened. He contemplated his napkin and made up his mind.
"Derrick?" Dean hated himself for even speaking to Sammy's murderer.
"What?" Derrick might be afraid of Abigail, but at least he could still torment the pipsqueak.
"I'd rather have that." He pointed to the supposed onion rings, right shoulder painfully protesting even that slight movement of his arm.
Derrick snorted. "You want calamari? You know it's squid, right? I knew you'd get hungry enough to beg even me for food, kid. Must run in the family. That runt brother of yours, I gave him plenty of time to beg before I slit his throat. You gonna cry for me too?"
Dean swallowed everything he wanted to say. Oh god, Sammy. "N-no. I, I just need to think about s-something else for as long as I can. Maybe I could have a glass of wine? My dad never let me."
The laughter was louder this time. "Cocky attitude kind of goes to hell when you figure out you're dying, doesn't it? Sure, why not? You'll be easier to handle drunk anyway." Derrick piled calamari beside the quail and filled a goblet with red wine. "Eat up."
Dean forced a bite between his teeth, just enough to get spotted chewing. Certainly didn't plan to actually eat this crap. As soon as Derrick's attention returned to the glittering ladies of the gathering, Dean slipped the calamari from his plate into his napkin, awkwardly rubbing it about with one hand. Good thing the junk was greasy. Once the cloth was reasonably oiled, he let the food slip to the floor. A glance confirmed that no one was watching him all that closely. That was the only advantage he could think of to being shackled to a chair. People sort of assumed you'd stay put. He carefully placed the napkin on the table and tapped his hand into his wine glass. The red liquid saturated the cloth before Derrick or the woman seated next to him could react.
"Clumsy boy! Look at my dress! I told Abigail we should have left you downstairs until we needed you. Derrick, take all that food away. No sense in wasting food on the likes of him anyhow."
The flustered witch dabbed at her gown, soaking another cloth. As Dean had hoped, the soiled napkins remained when Derrick took his plate and ruined goblet away. Dean took a gamble that whatever ritual was to take place would also involve candles. He couldn't think of any that didn't, and he'd have a better chance of getting his improvised wicks near those than the tapers on the table. Now he could only hope some part of this evening involved letting him out of this chair.
The last of the dessert plates were cleared away as William stood to address the crowd. "Good evening again. If everyone will follow me to parlor, Abigail and Muriel will join us shortly. Derrick, bring our youngest guest, please."
"You heard him kid, show time." Derrick released Dean from the chair, not noticing the napkins that had disappeared beneath the white shirt. He twisted the injured right arm behind the boy, propelling the stumbling form before him.
Wait Dean. I have to make myself wait. Gotta give myself the best chance to do this, for Sammy.
A parlor may have been what the builder intended, but the room they entered bore minimal resemblance to that ideal. The room had the same black marble floor as the banquet hall, but the surface was unpolished here, and the pristine ivory damask wall covering of the banquet hall had been replaced by a deep grey-black slate, the natural materials at odds with the glittering opulence of the rooms beyond. The ceiling was composed of heavy ebony wood beams and a pair of wrought iron chandeliers cast candle light feebly down. These were completely overwhelmed by the slab of obsidian stone in the center of the floor. The hand hewn rock was perhaps three feet high, its rectangular top two feet wide and eight feet long. A foot and a half diameter basin broke the exact center, a small fire already burning within. From the smell, Dean guessed it was sandalwood and sage. A silver bowl sat on either side of the flames.
The surrounding ring of chairs almost faded into the gloom. They seemed to be the same ebony wood as the ceiling, in an unforgiving ladder back style. Dean noted with a flicker of interest that two of the seats had cuffs on them this time. The witches filed in silently, each taking an unfettered seat. Derrick predictably steered him to one of the remaining two.
It wasn't until Dean dropped his eyes to watch the chains go back around his ankles that he noticed two additional points about the room. Firstly, these shackles weren't the modern stainless steel of the dining table, but crude unfinished iron. Secondly, there was a slim break in the floor surrounding the center stone. Two inch wide circles surrounded it, the closest one a strip of bare earth that may have extended below the stone itself, the outer one filled with water. He couldn't quite give a name to the unease that came from the natural elements in the room, but that wasn't keeping it from expanding in the depths of his stomach. He stifled a gasp as his wrenched shoulder found a new level of complaint, both hands now securely fastened behind the wooden rungs of the chair.
Muriel entered a few minutes later, the white gown she'd worn to dinner sliding silently to the floor just outside of the parlor entrance, giving way to a sleeveless white cotton shift beneath. It hadn't been evident below the floor length taffeta of the dress, but her feet were bare. She walked a circle around the room's central stone before stopping opposite her seat to dip her fingers into each of the bowls, flicking the water into the hiss of the flames. Nodding at the other ladies, she circled the opposite direction, then bent to kiss the exposed dirt rim at the monoltih's base, finally turning back to her chair to fasten the iron circles about her ankles herself. Her hands remained loose in her lap as she sat.
Abigail and William arrived together, sharing a kiss before he spoke quietly to Derrick and the two men left the room. Dean flinched at the sight, he was resigned to dying here, but he wanted Derrick to go with him. Why'd he leave?
A small silver dagger had apparently been within one of bowls. Abigail removed it, carrying that as well as the chalice to stand in front of Muriel. The younger woman held up both palms, neither one speaking as the dagger drew a thin red line across each hand, although Muriel couldn't quite choke back a sob when the knife dipped to make a deeper wound in the center of her chest. Dean ws convinced he heard the blade grate across bone from the other side of the room. Blood quickly dribbled down onto the white of her shift, a startling crimson bloom.
Abigail cleaned the blade in the bowl, then took a sip of the bloodied water before offering it to Muriel so she could do the same. She returned the dish to what Dean had realized was their altar before she spoke.
Parum sorora cruor iam effundo
Antiquus orbis iam conficere
Universa totus pes ingredi nostrum iunctus semita
Effundere vires venator habere
Dean squirmed in his chair, wishing he'd paid more attention to the few Latin lessons John had attempted as her voice filled the close chamber. He recognized the word hunter, hoping Abigail wasn't getting to his part of the ritual just yet. He relaxed a fraction when the other witches rose.
Each plucked a sage bundle from the floor, lighting it afire before walking the circle to trail the end of the stick through the blood on Muriel's chest and then extinguishing it in the as yet untouched bowl. Pricking her finger with the dagger, each of the ladies then added a drop of her own blood to the containers and finally to the flames. Their voices joined Abigail's in the low murmur of the chant.
Incendia addo suus animus ut nostri
Aer altivolus nostrum placitum ut divum
Terra ad ancoras deligara nos ut vita
Unda fluere ut malus jurgium
Dean felt the air in the room begin to stir, oddly making it hotter. The cloying heat and flickering light on top of the last three days were wearing on the young hunter, threatening to send him back to his earlier despair. This needs to end. He shook his head back to alertness.
Venator parvulus animus sumo
Aevum pensus per nummoreus pueritia
Pallium cruor orbis signum
Finire vita conventio vigoratus
Abigail had released Muriel from her chair and was leading her forward to the altar. The newly made witch kissed the older woman's cheek and knelt. Abigail deftly wove the blond strands of the younger woman's hair into a sleek braid that trailed to her hip, then severed it at the nape of her neck. The freed tresses joined the sage in the fire, adding a stench to the proceedings.
While Muriel returned to her place in the circle, Abigail advanced on Dean, a smile spreading across her face in the dim light. She simply stood considering him for a long moment, then bent to kiss each cheek, her smile widening further when he shrank back in the chair. She held one of the silver vessels to his mouth, pinching his nose until he reluctantly gagged down the blood-laden contents.
Dean felt his head began to swim as the metalic fluid puddled in the back of his throat and fought to refocus on the movements of the coven. He realized the haze he initially assumed was all in his head was at least partially the sage smoke swirling around him and knew he would have to act soon before the air became so befuddling he couldn't.
"I'm afraid your adventure here has ended hunter-child. Come." She ran a possesive finger down to outline his throat.
He felt a shiver climb his spine as she unlocked his limbs, aware the waiting of the evening was about to end, one way or the other. He'd heard the lecture a hundred times – never go into a hunt without a plan. That was all well and good, but these witches had been hunting Dean, not the other way around. He was going to have to hope for an opportunity, make one if he could. If not, well at least a few more hours would see him back with Sammy, wherever that was. He didn't have time to figure out if he believed that about dying or not.
"Are you going to behave, Dean, or do I need to help you?" She moved her hands in the complicated pattern he'd seen in the cell below, again resulting in his limbs moving on their own.
Dean swallowed hard, reminding himself of the fear lecture he'd given Sam. Yeah, cause it worked out so well there. He had to convince the witch to let him move under his own power. "I'll behave, witch. Got no desire to drag this out."
"Oooh, good boy!" Her fingers ruffled through his hair as he stood, a gesture walking the fine line between parental and predatory. "Follow me."
He approached the altar behind her, both of his hands clasped in one of hers. She positioned him at one end of the stone, let his hands fall to his sides as she slid the jacket off his shoulders.
"Get rid of the shirt, socks, and shoes." She picked up the dagger, not quite trusting her young charge to obey. This was a game until he took a shot at escape, and they both knew it.
This wasn't the moment. He stumbled over the unfamiliar cufflinks and tie, but he still managed to keep the two squares of soiled green linen hidden as he stacked the now folded clothes.
"Sit, youngling." Her empty palm slapped against the black stone.
Dean climbed onto the altar top, inching his way closer to the small fire pit. Almost….
Abigail and the other witches resumed their low chant, the latin droning over Dean as her hands forced his hips sideways, pulling his feet onto the rock surface as well. His toes grazed the discarded clothes as she put both her hands on his bare chest, right fingers still curled around the knife. She allowed her knuckles to grind into the purple black mess of his swollen shoulder as she pushed him, intending to lay him back on the stone.
Almost… He bent his knees to make his supine form fit on the right half of the altar, permitting the not so gentle maneuvering until his skull skimmed the rock beneath, cheek brushing the silver vessel on the way by. Now!
Dean grasped the oiled napkin with his toes, flipping it up to grab with his injured hand as his stronger left arm swung at Abigail, knocking the blade away from his chest . He twisted upright, barely aware of the vicious slash she'd opened across his ribs as the cloth in his hands went into the fire pit, rapidly catching between the grease and the wine.
He kept a tip of the fabric in his fingers, flinging the impromptu torch in Abigail's face.
"No!" Her shriek was satisfying, but the clatter of the dropped knife was better. Dean rolled off the table to the floor, snagging the blade before she knew it was gone. A feral grin graced his young face as he noted her dress was ablaze.
"Don't believe I'll stay for the party games, thanks." Dean knew he had to get out of this room before the other witches recovered from their surprise and attacked him.
Two of the others turned their attention to Dean, the remainder seemed focused on helping Abigail. The chamber was in sudden uproar. He held the knife in front of him, keeping his back to the wall as he side stepped to the door. As he'd hoped, the physical threat appeared to limit their concentration for spell casting. Unfortunately it didn't keep the taller of the two from trying to tackle him. He really wished this blade was bigger than a tinker toy.
The witch's arms wrapped around his waist as one of her feet tried to sweep his from beneath him. Little knife or not, it was what he had. He slid it beneath her ribs, aiming up into her chest and wrenching it in a twist as hard as his battered body would permit. Thankfully she released him, her companion easing her to the floor rather than continuing the attack on the boy they had clearly underestimated.
He found the fortunately unlocked door and ran into the brighter light of the hallway, hoping the banquet hall would be empty by now. Bare feet slapped against the polished floor.
He reached the deserted room, the table still set from the meal of an hour before. Perfect. He discarded the ceremonial blade in his hand for a larger carving knife, then tipped over the still burning candelabras, lighting the linen of the tablecloths. For good measure, he snagged a stray candle and lit the elegant draperies in several places, making a quick circuit as he heard footsteps rapidly approaching from behind.
Unlike the parlor chamber, nearly everything in this room was flammable and an inferno quickly ensued, shielding Dean from being immediately found by his captors, but threatening him as well. Didn't matter if he went down with the ship, as long as it went down.
He struggled to the entrance at the opposite end of the hall, confident that the door leading back to the parlor didn't lead anywhere else. Reaching the only other exit, he hesitated for a moment. Run through and try to find a way out? No, not with Sammy gone. Stay and bar the door. He'd made his decision before the evening started, said a silent goodbye to his dad. An unwelcome flash of Sammy's nursery so long ago tormented the edges of his mind. Wish this didn't have to be a fire. Suck it up, Dean.
The crackle of the raging fire had been joined by Dean's harsh coughs as he choked on thickening smoke, stumbling back away from the now locked door. Yells of the witches cut through the room also, but the billowing black prevented him from seeing any of their owners. He picked out Abigail's voice, Muriel's, several others. He managed a gallows smile when he heard William's and Derrick's amid the cacophony.
He sank against the wall, exhausted, spent. I did it Sammy. I'm so sorry it wasn't sooner. Don't really know what happens now, maybe I'll see you Sammy? Please…
The intense heat began to lick at his face even as he buried it against the knees he'd pulled up to his chest. Falling embers from the blazing ceiling melted into the skin of his unprotected back, singed his hair. The other voices echoed farther away, even as he heard screaming about names he didn't recognize being dead. Good. The only voice coming closer comforted and terrified him at the same time. Was it really there?
"It's okay baby. I love you. A few more minutes and it will be okay. I love you."
"Mom?"
Dean closed his eyes, trying to center in on the voice he hadn't heard in so long. No one else had ever called him baby. Hands wrapped around his shoulders and for the slightest minute he leaned into them, ready to let himself fall into his mother's embrace. All done…
Until he heard her voice in his mind again, frantic, forcing him to open his eyes into the stinging smoke. "NO! Dean, no!"
The hands didn't belong to his mother's voice. They belonged to Abigail.
Dean lost whatever acceptance he'd had, cringed away from the murderous eyes inches from his own.
"I can still make you regret this boy, make you beg me to die." She'd acquired another blade somewhere and began to carve a design on Dean's chest, floor hot enough to make the falling blood droplets sizzle.
Dean opened his mouth to reply, torn between hurling an empty threat and surrender.
Another voice rang out before he had a chance to speak, booming through the barred door.
"WHAT IN THE HELL IS GOING ON IN THERE!?!?!! DEAN?!!?"
A/N - I'm assuming everyone else had the same trouble posting the last few days, but looks like I'm back in business. Pretty please let me know what you think of this one - it's a very visual chapter in my head, but not sure that it came across here. Thanks for reading!
Bad poetry translation if you must:
Little sister's blood now shed
Ancient circle now complete
All feet tread our joined path
Spill the strength the hunter hath
Fire bring her power to ours
Air soar our plea to sky
Earth anchor us to life
Water flow to darkling strife
Hunter's child soul to take
Age paid in coin of youth
Stolen blood the circle seals
His ending life the coven heals