Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.
You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.) This takes place after 'Further And Further Out', so you'll probably want to read that first :)
Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter, I really appreciate hearing what you guys think :) And I had a few days off, which meant I was able to finish this up ahead of schedule! So instead of making you guys wait, I thought I'd post it all at once :) Hope you like…
Chapter 9
The clouds were breaking up overhead. They hung low in the sky, bruise-grey bellies swollen with the threat of more snow, but gently glowing golden light slipped through the cracks around the edges, softening the harsh morning.
The wind tasted clean, Sam thought vaguely, and resisted the urge to stick his tongue out for a better sample. His hands were fisted deep in the pockets of his hoody, his shoulders hunched even though the brisk wind didn't affect him. Another of the fox's magic tricks, he supposed.
It probably should have been alarming how quickly he came to accept the strange things. The laws of science and environment and space, they all worked differently when he was in the presence of the fox. But his mind had been a far stranger place for so long he'd almost become acclimatised to weird things happening in his vicinity. This was no stranger than seeing things that hadn't happened yet, he supposed.
They were walking aimlessly. Sam smiled a little when he thought of the picture they must present; a man and his fox walking side-by-side in companionable silence. And oddly enough, it was companionable. It reminded him of the times back when he was a moody teenager, hormones driving him and everyone else nuts. Dean would take him for a walk to cool off. Neither of them would say much, their attention on their feet as they put one in front of the other. But it was nice, knowing someone was there.
The small town centre was at the end of the road, and without conscious decision Sam headed toward it. The fox was apparently content to follow his lead, trotting elegantly in his tracks.
Even in the thick inches of snow, Sam could hear the cheerful noise of the market-traders setting up their stalls. A snow-plough had been out some time before dawn and the streets were filled with dirty mulched ice, churned and imprinted with thick tire-tracks. The sidewalks were untouched though, and Sam gave into the childish impulse to drag his feet, slipsliding along for a few yards before he lost his balance and had to windmill his arms crazily to avoid landing on his ass. The fox paused, watching him with daintily cocked head and strange eyes.
As they drew closer to the town the calls of the market grew; men bellowing and swearing and laughing with each other in friendly voices. There was the occasional loud thud as something was dropped, usually followed by exasperated noises.
The square came into view at the end of the road. Sam watched curiously, letting the bustle wash over him. None of the men seemed to notice him and he wondered if it was something else the fox had done, something that made them fade away into the background whenever anyone looked in their direction.
The theory was broken as one of the men, struggling to drag a thick tarp over the bare poles that made his stall, called over to him.
"Hey, tall kid! Mind giving me a hand here?"
Sam glanced around quickly. Seeing no one else in sight, he shrugged and made his way to the stall. "Sure."
He grabbed the other end of the tarp, hauling it up and over his head while the guy strapped it down on the metal scaffolding. The fox waited patiently on the sidewalk, out of the way. Out of the corner of his eye, Sam watched it sniff delicately at the snow before turning and settling on its haunches. The long red tail curled neatly around its paws like an expensive wrap.
He struggled with the tarp, doing most of the heavy work while the smaller guy tied it to the corners of the shelter. By the time the guy was finished, he was dragging in breaths like he'd run a race.
"Thanks kid." The guy said, already looking over at the crates loaded in his van with obvious reluctance. "Haven't seen you around here before. You new in town?"
"Yeah, something like that."
The guy nodded vaguely. "Yeah, thought so. Woulda remembered a big tall guy like you around." He walked over to the back of the van without looking at Sam.
Just as Sam began walking away, the guy called out to him again. "Hey!" He turned in time to catch the paper-wrapped package the man threw to him. It smelled of blood and felt weighty and moist. Peeling back the top layer, he saw a cut of raw meat marbled with fine white lines. Sam looked up with a frown. "'S'no good to me, won't sell with all that fat runnin' through it. Thought you might want it. Y'can give it to your fox." The guy nodded at the sidewalk with a bland look before turning back to unloading his truck. Sam blinked.
"So they can see you?" Sam said out loud, his voice dry.
He was sitting on a bench across from the marketplace, the fox at his feet chewing on the chunks of meat Sam tore off and held out to it. Some of the other men working at their stalls nodded to him as they set up, none with any apprehension in their expressions. He nodded back and looked away quickly, feeling vaguely dirty for no clear reason.
The fox licked its muzzle and rubbed a paw across its nose, cleaning up the traces of blood on its fine fur. Yes. They will not remember us. To them, we are a dream.
"Oh." Sam was silent for a long moment. "How do you do it?"
Illusion. The fox replied, carefully washing between the black pads on its paw.
"Like at the diner? You made my brother see the waitress come over to our table."
Yes. People that are susceptible will believe what I show them. It said, a faint note of distain in its tone.
Sam frowned, looking down at the fox. "I saw the illusion and the real waitress."
The fox glanced up at him for a second before resuming its cleaning. You have talents. You can see things others cannot. I knew as soon as your father entered the town that you would be the one I needed. I took him so that you would come.
Sam tensed up, his stomach twisting painfully. "What?"
A loud clang interrupted his thoughts and drew his attention to the market again. He watched distractedly as three men swore and made obscene gestures at each other, each one with a smile on his face to show he was joking. As a team, they retied the bundle of dropped scaffolding poles and hoisted them up to their shoulders, making their way to the centre of the marketplace.
It occurred to him that this was possibly the most stupid thing he'd ever done. People were worried about him, looking for him. They had no idea, he realised. No idea that his brain was working the way it should. They didn't know where he was, what he was doing. And what was he doing? Helping a possibly psychotic fox that had stolen him while he was stupid and blackmailed him into doing what it wanted.
Sam looked down at the fox. It was still carrying out its obsessive cleaning, seemingly unaware of Sam's thoughts. He opened his mouth, closed it again quickly before they could spill out into the air. Closing his eyes, he breathed deeply through his nose, regaining his compose before speaking in a tightly controlled voice. "Why? How did you even know that I'd come?"
I knew. You love your family, and you love your brother. If you sensed he was in danger, you would come.
Sam dropped the package of meat onto the bench. It fell with a wet plop. Beyond them, the market traders carried on as if there was nothing out of the ordinary. The smell of overripe vegetables filled the air. "You sent me that vision, that night in the bar. You tried to seduce Dean so that I would call him."
I did. The fox replied unashamedly. I also sent the vision of your father. I could not take the risk that your bother might send another in his place to search for him. It continued methodically licking at its paws, using them to tug its ears down one at a time.
"Why me? Why go to all this trouble to get me here; kidnapping my father, threatening my brother? Why?"
At the question the fox stopped in its cleaning and met Sam's eyes, one paw still suspended in the air. Because I need that ball.
Sam slapped a hand on the wooden armrest of the bench. The heavy thud was muffled by the layer of snow covering it. "What the hell is so important about that damned ball?"
I need it. The fox said simply.
"No. You don't get to pull all this crap, and then tell me nothing! I won't help you unless you tell me."
The fox looked at Sam steadily. For a moment Sam thought he'd pushed too far. But then, almost imperceptibly the fox lowered its face. It is who I am. Without it, I cannot survive.
"What are you?" Sam asked quietly.
I am kitsune. A spirit of the mountains, of the woodland. I have lived here for longer than you can imagine.
"Kitsune." Sam frowned, old lessons and research ticking through his mind like he was flicking through a filing cabinet. The desire to know that had been taken from him the night Jessica died lit up again in his mind, overriding the anger. The tiny snatch of information he recalled was vague. "That's-that's Japanese, isn't it? A fox-spirit, a trickster."
The fox's head flew up. Trickster? I do not trick
"Yeah? Seems like you do to me. I mean, if you can manipulate people into doing whatever you want, seeing whatever you want, that sounds like a trick." Sam spat out viciously before he could stop himself. The fox looked steadily on with unblinking eyes, and part of the hot rage cooled a little. "I don't get it. How did some random boy find your ball?"
The fox looked down at the ground, and if Sam had any money he would have bet it was blushing under the red fur of its coat. It is kept in a secret place. Most men do not see it. But I was...careless. I did not sense the talents of the boy.
"Talents? You mean, he's like me?" Sam said, eyebrows raised.
He has some minor abilities. Enough to notice an object of power when he is confronted with one.
Sam sighed, slumping down on the bench. The snow squeaked as he moved, soaking into the seat of his jeans. He was glad none of the men in front of him would remember if he had to go walking around with a wet patch on his ass. "So what are we supposed to do now, if the kid doesn't have the ball?"
The fox didn't answer. When Sam looked down, he saw it hunched over the curled tip of its tail, like it was a flame keeping it warm. When it answered, the arrogance that had frosted its tone was gone.
I do not know.
When Ben Ellis's mother came downstairs at seven-thirty, her hair a tangled mess and a dressing gown loosely knotted around her pyjamas, she was understandably surprised to find three men sat around her kitchen table looking like someone had died while her son made coffee.
Dean didn't look up from his intense study of the wood grain between his spread fingers, even as Mrs Ellis was ushered from the room by her son. He didn't pay attention as Jim and Ben tried to reassure her, feeding her lines about 'church business' and Ben's sudden desperate urge to consult with not one but three Pastors in the middle of the night.
His mind was still trapped in the snow outside. The footprints that belonged to his brother.
The indentations and markings in the snow were made by the sneakers he'd bought Sam when they'd first arrived at Jim's. Sam hadn't liked wearing boots. Laces were tricky things, and it was touch-and-go whether or not he'd have the attention span to tie them properly, or at all. The sneakers had been the last pair in the shop, the only pair big enough to fit his brother's giant feet. They were white leather with blue gummy soles and Velcro fastenings at the sides, and Sam had loved them so much that he'd refused to wear them outside for a week in case they got dirty. They'd probably be soaked through by now if Sam had been wearing them all night. Dean found himself hoping Sam had remembered to wear warm socks.
There was no doubt in his mind that Sam had been outside the Ellis's house. But it stuttered and failed like a dying car battery when he followed the line of thought to its obvious conclusion.
The prints had been evenly spaced, the tread neat and purposeful. They led from the street straight to the Ellis's front door, no wandering or pausing.
Sam as he was now would have been meandering all over the street, attention drawn by this car wing mirror or that funny-shaped azalea bush covered in snow. Sam being taken somewhere against his will would have been putting up a struggle.
There were no signs of hesitation in those tracks.
"Are you sure they're Sam's footprints?" John asked for maybe the thirtieth time.
"I'm sure. Those are the sneakers he was wearing, I put them on him myself."
"Sam's not the only person in the world with those sneakers, Dean."
Dean looked up, his lips pursed. "They're the same size as Sam's, the same pattern on the sole. It's too much of a coincidence for it not to be Sam."
Jim rejoined them at the kitchen table, leaving Ben in the living room with his mother. Her confused questions were audible even through the closed door. "Dean's right. We have to assume that Sam was here."
John rubbed at the stubble on his chin. His face looked haggard, Dean realised, dry and tired like he'd aged ten years in a night. He picked up the cup of coffee sitting in front of him, raising it to his mouth. "Okay. Say it is Sam. Say he was here. Why?" He put the cup down on the table again without drinking, looking over at Jim. "Was he being controlled by something? Is something trying to use him to get the ball?"
Dean picked up his own cup, swallowing a mouthful of the hot liquid and barely noticing when it burned his tongue. "The second set of prints. The animal tracks."
"Are we sure they're relevant? The neighbour's cat could have happened to pass through during the night." Jim said, a considering look creasing his forehead.
"We can't rule them out. Not until we know." Dean sighed heavily, dropping his half-empty mug with a thud and scratching at his scalp irritably. His hair felt greasy and stiff. He closed his eyes, momentarily immersing himself in a fantasy; hot shower, soap and lots of it, naked Sam pressed up against his side.
His dad's voice shattered the image pretty quickly, and Dean felt a warm blush sneak up on him. He was suddenly uncomfortably aware of the not-yet-faded lovebite sucked onto his inner thigh, compliments of Sam, and the fact that he happened to be sitting at a table with his father and a man of God. Fortunately neither seemed to notice anything.
"Well if they have anything to do with this, then they could be a pretty big clue." John stood suddenly, pushing his chair back with a loud scraping sound. "Has Ben got a computer with internet access?"
Dean rolled his eyes. "Dad, have you seen Ben? Kid's a bigger geek than Sam was at that age. Of course he's got a computer."
John nodded. "Good. Dean, ask if you can use it."
"Why?" Dean frowned, looking up at his dad.
"Because we need to narrow this down. If it's what I think it is, we might just have a way to kill it."
John turned away, apparently content to leave everyone else in the dark. Dean could almost hear Sam's shrill and righteous indignation in his head. But Sam wasn't here to protest. Sam wasn't here, and the thought was enough to bring Dean to his feet.
He grabbed his dad's arm before he could walk out of the room. "That's it? You have an idea what this thing is, but you're not gonna clue the rest of the class in?"
John turned to face him. "Dean, we don't have time for an argument."
"No, we don't. So why don't you tell me what I'm supposed to be looking for, and then maybe I can actually help."
His dad sighed, ducking his head. When he met Dean's eyes, Dean could see resignation mixed with some emotion he couldn't identify.
John nodded stiffly, as if the movement was hard for him to make. "Okay, son."
"A kitsune. Malicious trickster. It can take the shape of a beautiful woman or an old man, or it can possess people. Their power source, get this, comes from what the Japanese call a kitsune ball, kept hidden in the place they draw their spiritual energy from. Gives us an explanation for the dying forests; if its power source is connected to nature then maybe removing it means everything starts to die." Dean announced, dropping a sheaf of computer printouts onto the kitchen table for Jim to read. John was nowhere to be seen, his jacket missing from the chair and his mug of untouched coffee cold in its place.
"The only way of killing a kitsune is to destroy the power source. So all we gotta do is break that damn ball." Dean said, unable to stop the giddy feeling spinning through his head. He grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair, searching through the pockets for the keys to the Impala.
"Dean, wait." Jim said, his eyes focused on the papers in front of him. "It says here that there are two types of kitsume; myobo, or light, and nogitsune, dark. How do we know which one our kitsune is?"
Dean looked at him, mouth open. "Seriously? You're seriously questioning whether a creature that steals people is good or bad?"
"I'm not saying it's good. I'm just saying that if the ball is its power source, then it was obviously going to be angered by Ben taking it."
"Well if it was so angry it just decided to snatch up random people, like my dad and Sam, who clearly didn't have anything to do with Ben stealing the stupid ball, then in my book it's a bad thing. And we know how to deal with bad things." Dean said. He pulled the keys out of his jacket and turned to Jim, determination clenching his jaw. "I'm going to get the ball. We can finish this shit right now and be back home in a couple of days."
Jim looked up slowly, dragging his gaze from the page in front of him with what looked like considerable effort. "I don't think that's a good idea."
"Why not?" Dean heard the whine in his voice.
"Because if it's possessing Sam in some way, then we don't know what effect killing it might have on him. It could rip his mind apart."
Dean felt his stomach drop, the floating hope he'd been carrying since his dad told him what they were dealing with punctured like a balloon at the mental picture of a Sam regressed to the comatose body he had been months ago. Only this time, his brother might not be able to find his way back again. The keys felt heavy in his hand, a cold dead weight.
Jim continued speaking. "We need to find some way of attracting them both here. If we could break its hold on Sam…" He began to flick through the papers laid out on the table again.
Dean dropped into a chair, landing heavily. He watched distantly as Jim reorganised the papers, seemingly no longer aware of his presence. He felt like screaming. Patience was never something he was good at, and his fingers itched for something to do, some way to be useful. He wanted his brother back, damnit, and he wanted him now.
John clomped loudly into the kitchen, melting snow dripping off his boots in wet globs. His jacket was on, done up to the throat to protect against the bitter wind outside, and in his hand he held a paper bag. He looked expectantly over at Dean. "Well?"
"I think you were right. A kitsune matches all the patterns. All we need to do to destroy it is break the ball, but Jim says if it has Sam possessed then it might hurt him." Dean recited vacantly, propping elbows onto the table and leaning his head in his hands.
John nodded like he'd expected to hear it. "There's a ritual we can do, a summoning ritual. It's supposed to attract spirits, which is essentially what a kitsune is, so I'm hoping it will work."
Dean looked up to see his dad's expression turn furtive. "What? That's good, right? What's the problem?"
John let out a sigh, finally meeting Dean's eyes. "We'll need Ben to be the bait."
Ben stood in the centre of his backyard, shivering.
His mom had, after much reassuring, eventually left for work, leaving Ben in the supposedly-capable hands of the 'Pastors'. Who were currently lighting fairy candles and burning incense. He resisted the urge to run away screaming.
At least the oldest guy, Jim, actually appeared to be a Pastor. He was dressed up in black robes, the white dog collar at his neck seeming stark and out of place as a hangman's noose amongst all this blasphemy. His mom had warned him of the dangers of paganism, told him to stay away from it, even if his friends said it was 'cool'. He hadn't told her that the only kids who hung around with him were the geeks who got their glasses broken at recess. And after the redhead messed with the jocks at the diner, he doubted he would ever be considered cool enough to be invited to any theoretical pagan rituals anyway.
He shivered again, wrapping both arms around his stomach. The snow had stopped in the night, but the wind was harsh as a knifeblade and bit through his clothing like it was nothing. Dean had steered him to the very centre of the yard and told him to stay, like he was a pet dog. The snow seemed to have accumulated around his snowboots, packing them down until he could only see the tops of his feet. Despite the sheepskin inners, his toes ached with cold.
"Are we nearly done yet?" He called through his chattering teeth.
Jim looked at him with a kind expression. "Not yet, son. It might be a while."
Dean didn't even look up, his mouth set in a hard line. Ben told himself he wasn't disappointed that the older guy didn't seem to care about him anymore. Not now he had a chance to get his 'Sammy' back. He pressed his chin down into his chest so that Dean was no longer in his line of sight.
The smell of incense suddenly got stronger, a warm woody scent that made him cough and wrinkle his nose.
He looked up, but no one was paying any attention to him. Dean was standing up straight and proud, holding a bundle of incense sticks in one hand. As Ben watched, he stuck the other into his jacket and pulled out a handgun. His face was gritty and determined, like the heroes on those old cop shows his dad had liked to watch. Dean held the gun with professional ease, his fingers light around the grip. He bent and stuck the incense in the snowy ground, packing the snow around it until it stood up by itself.
"Are we ready?" He called out to the other guy, the one who didn't say much. His dad, Ben assumed, unless Dean's calling him that meant something else to these guys. He didn't want to make a fool out of himself by asking.
The other guy glanced around at the rough circle of candles and incense they'd created. He gave one hard nod and pulled out his own gun from somewhere within his clothes. "Okay Jim, do your thing."
Ben looked around in surprise, wondering what the hell Jim's 'thing' was. He didn't expect the sudden splatter of water to hit him in the face. It was shockingly cold and he tried to step back, but his feet were firmly encased in the snow and he ended up falling onto his ass. He could practically see any cool points he might have gained in Dean's eyes floating away. Blushing furiously, he scrubbed at the wet spots with a fist and kicked his feet free.
"Sorry, sorry. Are you okay?" Jim asked, putting down the metal canister of water and leaning over to help him up. "I should have told you what to expect."
"Uh, yeah, might have been nice. What was that for?"
"Holy water. It'll hopefully stop the kitsune from being able to touch you."
Ben blinked up at the Pastor for a second. "Um, the what?"
"The redhead." Dean chimed in, sounding irritable. "Now, can we get moving with this? Dunno if anyone else has noticed, but it's kinda cold out."
Ben nodded quickly, ducking his head down to hide the stubborn blush. Jim started flicking more water at him, muttering words under his breath. Ben didn't make any attempt to wipe them away this time, even though each drop felt like it was turning to ice on his skin.
After a few more flicks, Jim stepped back, looking expectantly over at Dean. Ben looked at him too, wondering what the hell came next in this freaky ritual.
He nearly lost his balance and fell back on his ass when Dean approached him with the ball.
"What? What are you doing? I don't want it back!"
"Sorry kid. Gotta be done." Dean didn't look very sorry as he pushed the ball into Ben's unwilling hands. "Hold onto it. We don't want it breaking just yet."
"Why? What's going on?" Ben could hear his own voice, the terror rising in pitch. He fumbled with the ball, nearly dropped it, but Dean had told him not to break it so reluctantly he held on tight. "What's gonna happen?"
Dean glanced at him once, clearly disinterested in his fear. He went back to scouring the garden around them with narrowed eyes. "Hopefully, the girl's gonna turn up with my brother. Then we can get him back, kill her, and everyone can be on their merry way."
"And what about me? What if she comes after me when she sees I've got the ball?"
"She won't."
"How do you know?"
Dean finally looked at him for more than a second. Ben held his gaze, trying to convey the same kind of courage and bravery that Dean had, instead of the bedwetting terror he felt.
The older man stared for a long moment, his face blank. And then, almost unwillingly, his expression softened. "Look, she won't get you, alright. She won't be able to get through the circle. You'll be safe. My dad and Jim are just over there, and I won't leave your side, okay?"
Ben blinked, biting his lip to try and hold back the childish you promise? It managed to escape anyway.
Dean looked pained for a second before it was wiped away, a mask of determination in its place. "Yeah. I promise."
After the fox finished the raw meat Sam followed it on a seemingly random path around the shopping centre. It was approaching nine in the morning and people were starting to appear, bundled up in thick coats and scarves. They gave Sam vague smiles as he passed, like he was a faint illusion fluttering in the corner of their eye. He'd noticed that some people, mostly the businessman types with briefcases and leather shoes, didn't see him at all, and more than once he'd had to dodge to one side to avoid being ploughed over. He wanted to ask the fox – the kitsune – why, but after their argument he felt awkward and embarrassed, as if he'd had a tiff with a lover.
And that thought made him screw his face up and blush hotly. It wasn't bad enough that he'd apparently started a sexual relationship with his brother, now he was comparing his odd companionship with a fox-spirit to a domestic situation.
Although he could almost understand why. He'd encountered spirit-beings before, but never so intimately, and never had he been so connected to one. It was heady, the kind of power this thing wielded. The kind of influence it had. And it had chosen him, out of everyone.
A woman talking on her cell phone and carrying several large bags knocked into his side, spinning him around. Her phone fell to the floor with a clatter and Sam instinctively bent to pick it up. Before he could reach it, she'd snatched it away, eyes wide and set on his face.
"Uh, hey, I'm sorry. Are you okay?" Sam said, his best I'm harmless face on. But she was backing away with the wariness of someone confronted by a feral dog, her phone clutched tight in her hand. Before Sam could say anything else, she turned and fled, looking over her shoulder with the same petrified expression.
"Okay, that was weird." Sam said, frowning.
The fox glanced over at him from its spot a few feet away. Why? Because she was scared of you? You should not be surprised.
Sam looked at him, his frown deepening. "What do you mean?"
She could feel you. The touch of my mind on your own.
"Huh? You've…touched my mind?"
The fox held his gaze steadily. Why do you think your thoughts are ordered now, when they were not before? I do not need the help of a child. I have no use for you as you were.
Sam stumbled backward, feeling a wall behind him and leaning heavily against it. "So…so when this is over, I'll go back to…to being like that again?"
If you wish to. The fox cocked its head. When I have the ball, I will owe you one favour. If you wish to stay as you are now, it can be done.
Sam blinked, staring blankly ahead as his mind tried to process. He could choose? Why would there even need to be a choice? Between being normal again and being…that…
But he could remember, distantly, his awe at the softness of a cotton shirt. The almost overwhelming beauty of varnished wood. Feeling emotions like colours, living and vibrant and fresh.
And there was Dean to think of. Of course his brother wanted him to be better, but Sam had seen his happiness, his contentment. Living at Jim's had been good for him. He woke up smiling and cooked pancakes for breakfast. He sat with Sam and played monopoly, laughing when Sam forgot the rules and started building elaborate little towers out of the tiny metal pieces. The shadows under his eyes had disappeared and his hair turned blond after long hours sitting in the sun. Could Sam be normal again, force Dean back into hunting because he thought he couldn't do anything else without Sam to take care of? Sam could all too clearly see any relationship with Dean being dropped, never to be spoken of again, because Sam would never get a chance to explain that Dean loved him in the best way he knew how and Sam would never think Dean took advantage of him in any way.
He'd barely had time to process how he felt about his brother now. How he would feel about continuing – or putting a stop to – the kisses, the touches, sharing the same bed at night and waking up held close to Dean's chest.
The fox nudged at his leg with its nose, and Sam started. He hadn't even noticed it moving.
We do not have time to stand staring at these people. It said, deigning to cast haughty eyes over the melee of shoppers walking back and forth in front of them. We must go.
Sam laughed incredulously. "Go where, exactly? Do you have a plan now, 'cause I don't?"
The fox nipped at him, sharp teeth catching the skin of his calf through his jeans. He yelped and jumped back. "Hey!"
Just come. We should not stay here too long.
Sam let out a dramatic sigh, rolling his eyes upward at the grey clouds still threatening more snow. The fox ignored him, trotting on ahead as if it didn't care whether he followed or not. Sam followed.
It was half an hour later that Sam realised they had returned to the market square they'd started in. Now it was filled with milling people, vendors calling out to shoppers and waving bags of vegetables and wrapped parcels of meat. Children laughed, screaming and chasing one another in the slushy road while their parents tried unsuccessfully to wave them over to their sides.
"Is there a reason we're back here?" Sam asked, not bothering to look at the fox. It didn't reply, and Sam finally huffed and looked down by his side.
The fox sat on the sidewalk, head pointed downward. Its ears were limp, giving it a bedraggled look. The lustre of its red coat seemed to have dimmed. Sam couldn't help the ache he felt in his chest.
He stepped to the side of the road, lowering himself to sit beside the fox.
"Hey. It's okay. We'll find a way to get the ball." The fox didn't look at him and Sam sighed, crossing his arms to form a bridge on his bent knees. "Is there a specific reason I can't just go and ask the kid? I mean, maybe he'd give it back."
That had the fox's head whipping up like a pulled trigger. No! He stole it! I tried promising him favours, as I did for your assistance, but he refused.
Sam raised a hand in surrender. "Okay, okay. We'll find some other way."
At that moment something pinged in his head, like a single note plucked on a guitar, high and unwavering. It drowned out the noise of the market and Sam twisted around, trying to see what had caused it. None of the people on the busy street seemed to have noticed, still going about their business and ignoring him as best they could.
The fox had noticed, its ears pricking up and tail sweeping in broad agitated swipes.
"Did you…"
The ball!
It was on its feet and running before Sam could move.
"Hey! Wait!" He scrambled to his feet, slipping in the snow and feeling it soak into the cuff of his jeans. Wet and cold, and wasn't the fox supposed to be shielding this from him? "Wait!"
The children playing in the street stopped what they were doing, looking at him with curious eyes as he stumbled after the fox, sliding again and catching himself on the side of a building. The brick prickled his palm, a rough sudden burn. He ignored it, tailing the fox and its distinctive red coat.
It disappeared around a corner, Sam tumbling after it, clumsy on his feet. The singing note didn't fade, seemed to get louder as he ran, and he realised he was running toward it. Soon it filled his head, all he could hear.
A truck skidded to a halt, kicking up thick clods of wet ice as he ran across a road. It stopped inches from his outstretched arm, the driver leaning out the window to yell before blinking stupidly and glancing around. Sam didn't stop, didn't bother to look his way.
The fox was still loping ahead and Sam could barely keep up, even once his long legs hit their stride. The snow didn't seem as slippery now, barely there. If Sam had looked behind him, he would have noticed he was leaving no footprints in the snow.
With the black-tipped tail as a guide, Sam shut out everything else. The ping was still echoing in his head but he ignored it. He had to get to the fox. He had to stop…
Stop what?
He dismissed the thought, focusing on his steady breathing. In and out, short puffs that didn't mist in front of his face. It didn't matter, nothing mattered. He just had to get there.
They were on a street, a street he half-recognised, but the light was wrong, it had been darker…
The street the boy lived on. The house the boy lived in, and the fox was too far ahead of him, was already disappearing into the bushes by the side of the house.
Sam followed it, rounding the corner of the house and hearing Dean's voice. "Stop right there, you sonovabitch. Where the hell is my brother?"
Dean stood in front of Ben, who was shaking so hard the ball nearly slipped through his fingers. He spared a quick glance back at the kid, narrowed eyes telling him to calm the fuck down, it'll be alright. He hoped.
When a flash of red appeared, leaping out of the bushes in a flurry of snow, Dean nearly pulled the trigger of his gun in surprise. On either side, safely within the protective circle, his dad and Jim aimed their guns without hesitation.
Dean took a step forward before he could stop himself, hearing Ben's frightening gasp as he moved away. "Stop right there, you sonovabitch. Where the hell is my brother?" He barked, his fingers tightening on the gun until his grip was almost painful.
Standing outside the circle, a fox cocked its head. Its ears were back, lying flat against its head, and its lips were drawn in a snarl. Before Dean had time to blink, it disappeared, the redhead from the bar in its place.
Ben let out a yelp.
"Give me the ball!" She yelled, green eyes blazing with anger.
Dean's mouth twisted. "Where's my brother, bitch?"
"Dean, wait!" Dean turned to the side of the house at the voice, every muscle in his body tense and pulsing in time with his rapid heartbeat. The voice sounded like…
His brother ran into the backyard, skidding to a halt in a move that looked too graceful on his long coltish limbs.
Dean nearly dropped to the ground in sheer relief. Sam's hair was hanging in his face and he was breathing fast, cheeks pink. The legs of his jeans were dark with wet patches. Dean never wanted to look at anything else ever again.
"Sam. Sammy." He couldn't seem to get any other words out, everything in him filled with Sam until he felt like he was drowning in it. He took a step in Sam's direction, gun forgotten in his hand.
"Dean!" Ben's scream, fractured and desperate, barely filtered through, and even when it did Dean couldn't find it in him to care. He wanted his brother, damnit. He wanted his Sam.
But Sam was holding up a hand as he dragged in long breaths, his eyes wide and scared. "Dean, you can't kill it. Wait, please."
"Sam?" He blinked, his mouth opening to speak words he hadn't gathered together yet.
"Dean, you gotta listen to me, man. It's not bad. It doesn't want to hurt anyone, it just wants the ball back." Sam was pleading, his eyes big in his head. Pleading, like he had when he wanted to stay behind and revise for the SATS rather than go on the werewolf hunt in Illinois. Like when he told dad he was leaving for school, and later begged Dean to come with him.
Sam was talking in whole sentences and looking at him like he could see and focus and remember, he wasn't fidgeting or tapping or looking for a new shiny thing to play with. His eyes were clear and bright and anxious, just a little sleep-deprived but that was only to be expected, he'd been out all night…
Sam, whole and better, his mind fixed and straight again. Sam back to normal.
Dean felt his head spinning, his stomach cramping like he'd swallowed a hundred live spiders and they were trying to crawl back up his throat. Like everything was light and sweet and airy and good, because Sam was better again. Sam was fixed. Was he supposed to be happy or sad?
Would Sam stay?
"Dean!" The grating shout of his dad made him glance away from his miraculous, terrifying brother, just for a second. "The job!"
The job. Always the job. His job.
He could hunt again, now that Sam was well. Dean blinked, regaining his bearings and feeling his purpose push everything that could wait until later to one side.
The body-warmed metal of the gun in his hand had never felt so much like a blessing. He knew this, was good at this. This was his life.
He turned back to the redhead, sparing another quick glance for his brother.
She had begun to pace, quick powerful steps back and forth outside the circle. Her eyes never left Ben.
"Give me my ball, boy. You stole it from me. Give it back."
Ben was clutching the ball to his chest with both hands, his eyes blank with panic. His body was wracking with shudders like he was having a fit, and Dean remembered his promise. Sam was okay. Ben needed to be too.
"Ben, hold onto that ball. It's okay, she can't get to you." He said in a low voice, not taking his eyes off the woman.
She was wearing a thin white dress that hung off her shoulders, baggy around her waist and brushing her calves but still managing to hint at curves. Her feet were bare, and Dean noticed that sometimes they left footprints behind, sometimes not.
Jim stepped forward, the canister of holy water in one hand and the gun in the other. Almost under his breath, he began reciting something in Latin. The woman didn't seem to care, not sparing the Pastor a glance, but Dean noticed her legs dragging like she was being forced back.
"Dean, please, you have to listen to me!" Sam's voice was crisp and clear, ringing out like a chime. "It's not gonna hurt anyone! It just wants the ball and then it'll go back to where it came from. It didn't mean for the crop failures to happen."
Without looking at him, Dean spoke in a hard voice. "How about kidnapping, Sam? Did it mean to do that?"
"Dean…"
"Did it possess you? Did it make you walk out of that diner?" and away from me, he wanted to add.
"No! It-it asked me to go with it. To help it. All it wanted was the ball."
Dean did look at his brother then. "What? You walked out on your own? You…you just left? Sam, we were worried sick!" The pent-up aggression was a knot in his chest, sore and angry.
Sam left by himself?
Sam had on the determined face he'd pulled so many times before, the I know I was doing the right thing face that wound Dean up so tight. He took a step closer to the circle, arms spread wide.
"I'm sorry, okay, I didn't mean to scare you, but I had to."
"How did it fix you?" Dean asked sharply.
Sam blinked, looking taken-aback. "What?"
"How did it fix you, Sam? What did you let it do? What did you promise it in return, because I know these things don't just do favours out of the goodness of their hearts. What have you got to do for it?"
"I haven't got to do anything!" Sam started.
Before he could continue, the silky sinuous voice of the redhead broke in, amusement dark as coal colouring her tone. "Sam didn't promise me anything in return for his sanity. I gave him that because I need him whole. However, I did promise him a favour in return for that ball." She blinked, a twisted smirk playing on her red-pouted lips. She stopped her pacing and turned her body to face Dean, hands clasped on either side of her body in the material of her dress. "He can keep his sanity, or not, as he chooses. But only if I get my ball."
Dean frowned, his heart pounding. Sam sane…Sam not sane? A choice, for Sam, for his brother to decide which way he wanted to live. Against his will, Dean felt a surge of hope rise in his chest, warm as honey and milk. Sam could decide. And Dean, Dean would know for sure what Sam wanted. That what he was giving his brother was what Sam wanted.
"What's the catch?" It was his dad's voice, rumbling and hot like an angry bear. Dean looked up in surprise. He'd almost forgotten that it wasn't just him, the girl and Sam. That there were three other people waiting on an unknown move, either by him or by the redhead.
She turned to face his father, the humour gone from her face. "No catch. I get my ball, Sam gets his choice."
"And the boy?" John said slowly, his face saying he wasn't buying any of it.
She tilted her head to one side, blinking languidly. When she began to speak, it was with no infliction, no pleasure. "He stole from me, he forced me against my will. I didn't choose to be here, like this. I was content to be alone in my forest, as I have been for thousands of years. But he was impertinent. He deserves what he gets. He will die."
"But-but I didn't mean to! I didn't kn-know! I'm sorry, please, I'm sorry!" Ben cried out. Dean turned, saw him stagger backward in an instinctive move to get away. He tripped on the mounds of snow about his feet, landing hard. The ball was still cradled in his hands though, still unbroken. Tears streamed down his face, seeming to bleach it of all colour. "Please, just take the ball and go. I'll-I'll never do it again, I swear."
The redhead shook her head impassively.
"Wait! You said he wouldn't be hurt!" Sam said, edging his way to her side around the circle. His face was a mask of betrayal, and bizarrely Dean wanted to tell him off, remind him that he should never trust these things.
"No. I said you wouldn't have to hurt him. I said nothing about my own vengeance." She said without looking at Sam.
Instead she was staring straight at Dean, her eyes as direct as a bullet to the heart. "If you want your brother's sanity, you will give me the ball."
Dean met Sam's eyes, liquid-wet and holding everything he knew from before his brother left for Stanford. They begged for some nameless solution, some magical fix that big brother would pull out of his bag of tricks. Dean looked away.
Instead he turned to Ben, still lying prone on the snow-covered ground, tears running unchecked down his cheeks. The kid looked a mess, pale and blotchy and all painful angles. He didn't resist when Dean bent, taking the ball from his limp grip. The terror-stricken moan he let out made Dean close his eyes.
When he opened them again, the redhead was watching him with naked desperate need on her face. She stepped forward, running up against the invisible barrier of the circle and flinching back, but it didn't discourage her and she tried again and again to step through. Her eyes were hungry, starving, fixed on his hand.
Dean stared at the ball in his hands; innocuous and small and fragile. He squeezed his eyes shut again and dropped it.
It hit the snow with a soft thud that shouldn't have broken it, and Dean was about to raise his leg to stamp the thing. But there was a crack running through it, slowly, fragmenting off into smaller spider web lines that shone with whatever white light was trapped inside it.
The woman screamed, agony ripping through the air like a whip. Halfway through the scream became tortured yelps, cut off short before they could express the depth behind them. Dean looked up to see a fox, tiny and fragile, pressing its body into the snow. Its eyes were open, rolling in its head, and its tail lay flat on the ground like an arrow behind it.
Sam was on his knees beside the thing, his hair covering his face. Droplets fell to the snow beneath him and Dean knew his brother was crying.
Sam reached out a shaking hand to it, running careful fingers over its head. Dean thought of the cat at Jim's, so long ago now, Sam's beautiful face as he held it.
And then it was silent.
No one moved, all eyes drawn to that small red thing limp in the snow like a splash of drying blood. The candles, still burning ignorant and uncaring, flickered as a cold breeze brushed through the yard. The smell of incense was sickening.
When Sam looked up, his red rimmed eyes met Dean's like they were drawn by a magnet.
They were as foreign and strange to him as the fox's.
"It wasn't the fox's fault." He said plainly. "It had to. Those were the rules."
