Chapter 30 Familiarity Breeds Contempt
Lebanon, Kansas
Sam adjusted the tilting light so that it shone straight onto Dean's stomach, looking at the long, thick lines that ran from just above the lower ribs down halfway to his brother's hip.
"Looks good, huh?" Dean said, holding up his shirt with one hand as he peered down at the scars.
"Yeah, incredibly good," Sam agreed, glancing at the pot of unguent he'd made up from the recipe in the apothecary. The ingredients had all been there, and the thick paste had taken less than an hour to make, titled only 'Healing #1' with a short description in the book on its properties. The scars looked months old, not a little over a week. He looked up at Dean's face.
"And the movement, all there?"
"Yeah, the first couple of days, it was burning hot, but then it cooled off and there wasn't much more than the tug of the stitches," Dean confirmed, still staring at his skin. "Last couple of days, nothing. I did two hours last night, just to loosen up and see how it felt – not even a twinge from the muscle underneath."
He looked at Sam's face, the boyish grin infectious. "Some stuff."
"Yeah," Sam said, his mouth curving up to one side. "Lucky for us."
Dean shook his head. "Not luck. Not this time." He gestured to the books in the bookcase against the wall. "You found it."
Straightening up, Sam shrugged. "Lucky we've got this. Finding things here is a hell of a lot easier than randomly searching through Bobby's library."
"Yeah, I'll give you that," Dean said, dropping his shirt and sliding off the table as Sam turned off the lamp. "Your turn to cook."
"I thought I cooked last night?"
"Soup? You call soup cooking?" Dean shook his head. "Soup's hardly even a meal."
"It was bouillabaisse and you ate two bowls."
"It was fish soup and I was starving," Dean countered as he walked up the stairs. "C'mon, Sam, something that I can chew."
Sam exhaled, following him up the stairs. "Chili?"
"Now you're talking."
The desk lamp cast a wide pool of soft light over the polished walnut desk and dark green leather blotter, lighting up the photograph that rested at its base, and enclosing the room in a feeling of peace and solitude and calm. Dean sat in the chair, head resting against his hand as he read through the books he'd brought up from the library, the light turning the amber liquid in the glass beside him to gold.
Sam'd found four references to a myth of the Word of God, all from different sources, all independently verified, but all vague. None of the scholars writing about the so-called compendium written down by the scribe of Heaven had ever seen a tablet, or knew what had been engraved onto them, none of them had known of a prophet in any time in the last thousand years who'd read one.
It was possible that the information on the closing of the Hell gates across the world, those cracks and fissures where demons could slip out to tempt, to defile, to kill, had been recorded somewhere else. It was what he was hoping for, another myth or legend, giving some idea of what the other two trials were, some kind of lead that he could use to protect his brother.
But … so far … nada.
He lifted his head and rubbed his eyes tiredly. The paste that Sam had made for the wounds, which smelled like week-old dead dog, had healed him fast. Didn't have the same effect on the mind though, and he was no closer to getting what Sam had said, and what he was feeling, into any kind of framework that he could use.
God commanded it. He has work for you.
Castiel had told him the first time they'd met, looking into his eyes, into his fear and thinking that was somehow reassuring. He couldn't imagine being in a brighter fucking spotlight than having God notice him. And he didn't know why the entity had ever thought he'd be able to do the work that had been set before him.
But you did. You broke through to Sam. Not as Michael's sword. Not with the deaths of three billion people as the end result. Just through the power of your love for him, that wouldn't give up and wouldn't give in.
He couldn't work out who that soft voice in his mind was. Sometimes he heard his father's voice. Sometimes his brother's. Sometimes the angel's. But there was also a quieter, more gentle voice than any of them, speaking only when it was silent.
Was he saved, he wondered? Was he clean? He wanted to believe it. Wanted that weight and guilt and shame to go, to not have to feel or see or smell or taste those memories again. They rose in the night, and he was back in the pit and he saw the demons and the souls and the razor, over and over and he didn't think he could be, didn't think it could be that easy, 'cause, let's face it, nothing ever had been.
Picking up the glass, Dean swallowed a glassful of the smooth whiskey, relishing the soft roar down his throat and deep warmth that filled him. No more plastic jugs for him, he thought with a slight smile. Just the nectar of the gods and not so many ice-pick hangovers.
The clock told him it was just past one in the morning and he tossed the remaining whiskey in the glass down, closing the book and getting up. He stripped and picked up the pot of healing paste, smearing it over the long scars from end to end and pulling on a clean t-shirt. Turning off the light, he folded down the covers, the novelty of sleeping in his own bed still fresh enough to drive him to make it every morning. It was an odd taste of normality that he liked but still sensed was a bond, tying him here, to this place that he wasn't sure he trusted, wasn't sure he believed in yet.
The sheets were cool and clean, smelling of whatever stuff Sam used on them in the industrial-sized laundry under the kitchen. Not so much the smell as the overall sensations of getting into the bed could drag out his memories of his childhood, before the fire. Before the pain. Soft pillows. Clean sheets. A rustle as his mother pulled the covers up and kissed him, her soft, gentle voice telling him that angels were watching over him.
He rolled onto his side and dragged a pillow under his cheek, closing his eyes. It was worth the effort of making the bed to have those thoughts in his mind before he let sleep take him.
Darkness. And the sound of breathing, not his own. He froze, half-crouched, one knee on the floor, reaching around him to feel his surroundings. Nothing. At least not within arm's reach.
The light wasn't strong but he squinted against it, too bright for eyes that had become used to the black. In front of him, in the centre of the circle of light, there was a plain, straight-backed wooden chair. The light didn't penetrate the blackness around it entirely, but he could see that he was a room, a big room, with timber floorboards and plastered walls, high ceilings … alone. He closed his eyes and tried to hear the sound of that breathing, that other's breathing. He couldn't, not any more. Just the rasp of his own breath in his throat, the pounding of his own heart in his ears.
"The quest is not yours."
The voice was deep and low and seemed to have no point of origin, and after a moment he realised he hadn't heard it with his ears, but deeper, in his mind.
"Why not?" he asked, rising to his feet, looking around, feeling irritation at the way his palms were sweating, his breathing was catching.
"Stand aside. There is other work for you."
It held no inflexion, no accent or even a tone he could discern. Like a computer voice, the words were delivered without any sense of feeling or special meaning, just the bare information.
"What other work?" Dean looked around again, turning on the ball of one foot as he searched the darkness in the corners of the room. "What could be more important than closing the damned gates?"
"More than Hell threatens your world."
"My world? What?"
"The quest is not yours."
"Yeah, you said that." He stared at the chair in frustration. "What do you mean?"
He woke abruptly, with the feeling of falling, being pushed off a cliff and falling, his arms flying out, eyes wide in the darkness of the room, pulse hammering against the base of his throat and his hands sweating uncomfortably.
What the fuck? Reaching out, he slapped his hand against the switch of the bedside lamp, looking around the familiar and comforting room suspiciously. He remembered everything from the dream, as much good as that did him, he thought sourly, wiping his hands on the bedspread and leaning back against the pillows.
Closing his eyes, he thought that whoever was sending him messages would have do a lot better than that before he let his brother put his neck on the line for no good reason. Sam had a life here, and … maybe he did too, although he couldn't see it, couldn't see how he could fit in here in the same way that his brother did. He'd be damned if he just let that get thrown away.
More than Hell threatens your world. Now what the fuck was that supposed to mean? Monsters? Ghosts? Another piece of meddling by Cas' feathered brothers? His brows drew together at the last thought. The angel had been acting strangely … well, more strangely than usual … and he was still missing in action …
Tiredness dropped onto him and he shifted in the bed, rolling onto his side and pulling the covers higher against the cool air. He'd figure it out tomorrow.
The smell of coffee was another welcomed part of the arrangement here, Dean thought, yawning widely as he negotiated the kitchen doorway and the enormous island counter and made his way to the coffee pot. Sam's gourmet sensibilities had unexpected bonuses. He bought very good coffee.
Pouring out a cup, he leaned against the counter to sip the hot, aromatic liquid, eyes half-closed as the taste filled his mouth.
"Good, you're up," Sam said, walking into the kitchen and Dean looked at him questioningly.
"Just got a text message," he continued, carrying an empty cup to the pot as Dean moved aside and filling it. "From James Frampton."
Dean frowned. "The cop?"
"One and the same," Sam said, turning around to look at him.
"How the hell did he get your number?"
"I rerouted all our old numbers through a dozen dummy accounts with four different providers." Sam shrugged. "We changed numbers so many times in the last three years that I figured that any old contact was going to have trouble, and Charlie explained how to track them all down and string them together, aliased to get routed to the current ones."
Dean looked at him for a long moment and decided that understanding exactly what his brother meant, and what Charlie had done, wasn't worth the effort of listening to the techno-babble Sam could spout at the drop of a hat.
"Good."
Sam slid a sideways glance at him, dimples deepening to either side of his mouth. "Yeah, it wasn't that hard, the worst bit was breaking into the databases, to find the original accounts, had to find –"
"Sam …" he held his hand up. "Way too much useless information."
"Anyway, the text said he needs help," Sam relented.
"Good."
"Good?"
"Well, probably not good for him, all things considered," Dean admitted, finishing the cup and setting it on the counter. "But that debt's been bugging me for years, and now we can clear it."
Sam nodded. "When do you want to go?"
"He still in St Louis?"
"Yep."
"As soon as you're ready," Dean said over his shoulder as he walked out of the kitchen.
St Louis, Missouri
Dean pulled into the slot in front of the room and turned off the engine, opening the door.
"I'm just saying that I preferred the Marx Brothers," Sam said placatingly as he got out the other side, looking at his brother.
"You can't compare 'em," Dean argued, walking down to the trunk and opening it. "They're apples and oranges, man."
"I'm not comparing them, Dean. I'm stating a preference here."
"It's the wrong preference," Dean said stubbornly, pulling out his gear bag and shutting the trunk as Sam opened the door to the room. "It's like preferring … cake to pie."
"Don't even go there," Sam warned. "So, we calling James tonight?"
"No," Dean said, dropping the bag at the end of the bed. "We'll just call him tomorrow. That drive was a bitch."
"What do you think he needs help with?"
"He's still a cop, isn't he?" Dean asked. "Something work-related, I guess."
He looked around the room distractedly. "I'm gonna go for a beer run, you need anything?"
"No, I'm good," Sam said, unzipping his bag on the end of the second bed.
"You sure?"
"Yeah." Sam looked at him more closely, belatedly recognising his brother's reluctance to leave. "What?"
Dean shrugged, wetting his lips. "Nothing. I just … want to make sure that you're … okay."
Nothing, Sam thought. Right. "I'm good."
"'Cause, you know, we could find another devil dog, you could tag out, I could snuff the sonofabitch –"
"Dean," Sam cut him off. "Kevin doesn't even know what the next trial is yet. We haven't had any luck with getting any background on that either. So, whatever it is you're worried about … stop. I'll be ready."
He met his brother's gaze steadily, seeing the doubts in the dark green eyes, the tension that still held Dean's shoulders tight. After a moment, Dean ducked his head and nodded, unwillingly to press the argument further, Sam thought, watching him leave.
There was no way of knowing what was coming, but he felt ready. And he needed it. He needed to do this. That certainty had filled him from the moment he pushed the hound off him, spitting out the black blood that had sprayed over his mouth, turned his head to look at his brother's agonised expression.
He'd remembered. Finally. The exact moment that everything he'd believed in had changed. That he'd changed.
I don't know if what I'm doing is right. Hell, I don't even know if I trust you. But what I do know is that I'm saving people. And stopping demons. And that feels good. I want to keep going.
He smiled humourlessly. What a load of crap that had been. Feeding lies to himself, telling himself it was alright because the anger, that fury, that wild black horse that had been thundering through him since he'd watched Dean die for him, that had been under control, in harness and working for him and he'd felt calm and as if he knew what he was doing for the first time since he'd walked away from his father and brother to go to Stanford.
Good intentions. Not good reasons. Live and learn.
Dean walked to the car, unlocking and opening the door and getting in, twisting the key in the ignition slot with only a little unnecessary force. He was going to push Sam away again, trying to get him to see reason about this, he thought in frustration, twisting around to reverse out.
If I get wiped out trying to close the gates, it doesn't matter. He eased back on the accelerator as the thought intruded, looking around vaguely at the dark streets. Was that true? Was that how he really felt about it?
He didn't want to die, but he was prepared to, he rationalised, spotting the neon sign they'd passed on the way in and turning left to get to the market. He was ready for it. The bottom line was that if he died, Sam could go on, do some good in the world, find a life and a way to live it. If Sam died … what was he going to do, on his own, having failed at every job he'd had?
Not sit in some library and read through a couple of billion words to find answers to questions he didn't want to ask. Not find a woman to try to live with who wouldn't know him, would never know what he'd done or who he was. Not hunt alone, turning into the darkest part of himself with no reason to care if he crossed the line between human and monster and no reason to care if he lived or died in the hunt.
The math wasn't difficult.
You didn't kill the hellhound, the voice came quietly again. You didn't pass the first trial.
No, but he could, he argued with himself. He could find another of hell's bitches and slit its throat and let the blech drain over him and then he could do the rest.
There was a free parking space in front of the store and he pulled into it, turning off the engine and sitting there, listening to the tick of the metal cooling.
Why do you want to die?
He didn't want to die. He just didn't want to keep failing. He couldn't take another failure. Couldn't live with it.
Why do you think Sam will fail?
Because he wants to live.
He blinked at the thought that had come instantly in answer to the question. The other side of that equation negated everything he'd been telling himself. The silence in the car was suddenly too loud and he opened the door, getting out and going into the store, grabbing a basket automatically and moving down the aisles, throwing things almost randomly as he tried to force that thought away.
The scratching at the door was loud, loud enough to hear from the other side room and Sam turned from the bathroom counter.
Claws? Fingernails? He walked across the room and opened the door. On the concrete walk outside the room, a long-legged black dog stood there, ears pricked and head tilted as it looked up at him. A red leather collar, sparkling with zircons, was around its neck.
He looked down along the row of rooms. There was no one there. The dog gave up waiting for an invitation and trotted inside, claws clicking on the floor. It jumped onto Dean's bed and settled down.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa … ah, hell," Sam said, shutting the door and walking to the bed. "Hey … you friendly?"
He held his hand and the dog sniffed it politely. "Friendly, good, alright."
Looking down at it, he couldn't see any sign that it wasn't taken care of well, the short, black coat gleaming with health, the dark eyes bright, nose cold, tongue bright pink. "Pretty dog."
The dog rolled over onto its back, grinning up at him.
"Oh really? You want a belly scratch, huh?" Sam obliged, rubbing over its – her, he amended mentally as he glanced down – ribs and down below them over the belly.
"So who do you belong to?" he asked her, pushing her back over as he looked at the collar, sliding it around to see if there were any tags on the rings. "Right, no tags. Ah … what are you doing here?"
The rumble of an engine and the headlights that lit up the windows brought a sudden surge of panic.
"Oh, no."
The dog whined curiously, looking at the windows as Sam hurried to the door, opening it, stepping out and closing it behind him.
Dean got out of the car, shutting the door.
"Hey!"
He carried his impulse buys and the six pack of beer toward the room, a small frown drawing his brows together as he recognised his brother's look, the agitated cheerfulness that had filled Sam as a kid, knowing he'd done something neither father nor brother would approve of.
"Hey."
"Okay," Sam said, backing toward the room, his hands held up. "Okay, okay, okay. Before you get pissed off, I just want you to know this isn't my fault. She just showed up at the door, okay? Didn't track in any mud, just wanted her belly scratched … I figured, maybe she could stay tonight and we'd tried to find her home tomorrow?"
He reached behind him and turned the handle, pushing the door open, his face screwed up as he tried to judge his brother's reaction. Dean looked past him into the room, his face expressionless as he looked from the elegant black pumps at the end of his bed, up long, smooth legs, the little black dress that finished a couple of inches above the knees, his gaze shifting up the dress to firm, round breasts, the tops just visible in the décolletage of the dress, the necklace of diamonds that circled the graceful neck and the beautiful, dark-eyed, face above, framed with a silky fall of black hair.
The woman looked back at him, inclining her head slightly as she smiled.
Sam watched his brother's face as Dean assessed their houseguest carefully. It wasn't the expression he'd been expecting, that thoughtful perusal.
"She can stay the night," Dean said, looking at him.
He turned around. The woman's smile widened a little. He looked back at his brother, reaching for the knife sheathed at the back of his hip.
"Two seconds ago, she was a dog!" And he swung around, crossing from the door to the bed in two strides.
"Alright, who the hell are you?" Sam demanded.
"I'm not a skinwalker, so you can put away your blade," she said calmly, leaning back on her elbows as she looked up at him.
Dean walked in behind Sam, dumping the groceries and beer on the table and knocking the door shut with his foot.
"I'm a familiar," she added, glancing from one brother to the other.
"A familiar," Dean repeated. Sam flicked a look at him, knowing the thought processes that were already churning in his brother's mind.
"A companion to a witch," she said, nodding. "We take an animal form as well –"
Dean smiled. "Yeah, we're hip to the idea. Never seen a familiar without its witch, though."
Her gaze cut away from him for a moment, the long dark lashes sweeping down and hiding her eyes, then she looked back at them, and he wondered if he'd seen that second of discomfort in her face.
"I get a more accurate sense of people in my other persona, and approaching strange men in a motel room like this? Well, it can lead to misunderstandings that I don't have time for."
She sat up, crossing her legs. "My name is Portia. I am the companion of James Frampton."
Dean looked at her disbelievingly. "No. No, see that doesn't work for us, because that would mean that our buddy, James, is a witch."
She smiled at him, a little condescendingly.
"James is a friggin' witch?"
"He wasn't when you met him," Portia said carefully. "But that last case you worked with him on …?"
"Yeah, lunatic alchemist," Sam said, the details returning. "Nasty."
"James wanted to learn about that world," Portia said, getting to her feet. "The world that you showed him that exists in the shadows of this one. The black arts, witchcraft and divination … it became the centre of his life."
"Wait a minute." Dean shook his head. "You mean to tell us that James – the cop – became a witch, because of us?"
"You don't like dogs, do you?" she asked him, her voice dropping a little.
Dean blinked, unsure of why that was suddenly relevant. And had that been the human equivalent of a warning growl?
"So James isn't a cop anymore?" Sam asked her.
"Sure he is," she said, looking from Dean to him. "Homicide detective. What he's learned has given him an edge that no other policeman in the city has."
"Then what does he need from us?" Sam asked, glancing at Dean.
"Well, something … something's been happening to him," she said, letting out her breath softly. "It started a few weeks ago. Excruciating headaches and screaming sounds in his ears. Then the nightmares a few days later. Horrible nightmares. He can't sleep or think, he can't work …"
She turned away from them, shaking her head. "He's seen the doctors. He's seen the healers in our own community," she said, turning back. "No one can isolate a cause. It's not psychological, not physical so far as anyone can tell. I thought … maybe you could find a way to help him."
Dean rubbed a hand over his face. "You know what we are? What we do?"
She looked at him steadily. "I know."
"Witches are not a regular part of our here-to-help list. We're the last damned people James should be spilling his problems to."
"He's a friend. You were friends," she said, looking from him to Sam, her voice rising a little. "He's been a cop for fifteen years, he's done nothing but good. He doesn't deserve this, doesn't –"
"Alright, alright," Dean said, looking away. "What kind of witchcraft is he practising?"
"He's not getting his power from a demon, if that's what you're hinting." Portia turned back to him, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. "He follows the Right Hand Path and uses the energies of the earth."
Sam saw his brother's brows shoot up, sensing the comment that was forming. "Ah, you mentioned a community? Are there a lot of witches here?"
"Yes, they're clannish, but there are between one and two hundred of various faiths here in the city," she said. "Why?"
"Is it possible that James is being targeted?" Dean asked, following Sam's thoughts and pushing his own disbelieving comments aside. The man had saved their lives. The debt still rankled. He leaned back against the table. "Jealousies or competition or whatever the hell it is that witches have against each other?"
She looked down, thinking about that. "It's possible, for a very powerful practitioner, I suppose."
"Anyone like that around?" Sam asked. "Someone who also knows James?"
"No, not that I've seen."
Looking at the beers on the table, Dean reached for one, pulling it out and passing it to her. "Back to basics. Tell us about the dreams."
"He dreams of murdering people, with his bare hands. People he doesn't know, has never seen," she said, holding the bottle as she looked at him.
"What do you mean? He thinks he's actually killing people?" Dean frowned at her over his shoulder as he walked back to the table to get a bottle for himself.
"I think so," she said. "At least, that what it seemed like, before he started blocking me."
"Blocking you?" Sam sat down on the chair, twisting off the top of his beer.
"Familiars and their chosen witch can – we can communicate telepathically, hear each other's thoughts, see what the other is seeing. It's a part of the bond between us. I could see what was in his mind, until he shut me out."
"And you think there's something in there that he doesn't want you to see?"
"I don't know," she admitted, sadness edging her voice. "I don't know why he won't let me in, or why he believes … what he believes."
Sam looked down at the floor. Dean glanced at him then back to the woman standing in front of him.
"James doesn't know we're here, does he?"
She shook her head. "I sent the text. He can't go to the police. And he's afraid to ask the community now –"
"Why?" Sam looked up.
"Because of what he is," she said softly. "He's a cop, even before being witch. That has always made them uneasy, knowing he walks a line between their world and the normal world. They are not sure of his allegiances, not sure he won't turn on them."
"Sounds like fun," Dean commented dryly.
She looked at him, her face twisting slightly. "He follows his own code. He saves people, stops evil, but there are those in the community who are afraid of that, afraid that he won't hesitate to put them away or down if they drew his attention."
"I guess that could be a place to start." Dean tipped up his bottle, looking sideways at Sam.
Portia put her almost-untouched bottle on the nightstand and walked to the door. "I'll try and explain to him. Come in the morning. Please."
The loft apartment was big and comfortable, the furniture modern and expensive. Sam looked around, thinking that James had certainly been reaping the benefits of adding witchcraft to the cop's life.
When they'd met him, he'd just made detective, working on a series of bizarre killings that had shocked the city, putting the pieces together slowly and disbelievingly. He'd figured out that the two men who'd been flashing their tin around were not FBI agents, not with any law enforcement agency, and had confronted them privately, not sure of who they were but noticing that they were looking at the crime scenes, at the case, in a way that was different and were making progress. They'd teamed up reluctantly, and had tracked the killer to an abandoned substation on the city's limits.
"You had no right to do this!"
"I was afraid for your life!"
The conversation was clearly audible in the open plan apartment and Sam glanced at his brother, one brow lifting. Dean shrugged. Domestic disputes weren't of interest to him.
The alchemist's hiding place had been filled with the paraphernalia of the demented theories of the man, circles drawing in power, creating pseudo-real monsters that they'd had to dispel before they'd been able to reach the centre. Sam remembered James' face, eyes wide as they'd made their way through the defences, magical and prosaic, that had surrounded the place. He guessed it wasn't so surprising that he'd been drawn into that world.
"My life is none of their business!"
A moment later, the sleek Doberman trotted into the hallway, claws clicking on the hard floor. She stopped and looked at them, then veered away, going into another room.
James walked out and they got to their feet as he walked closer.
"Sam. Dean," James said in a low, resigned voice.
"Witchcraft, James? Really?" Dean shook his head. "What the hell were you thinking?"
"You come to help, or pile on?" James asked flatly.
"I'm just saying, you screw with that stuff, you're gonna fry your wiring," Dean pointed out, looking away.
"Alright," Sam cut in, looking at James. "James, tell us about the dreams." He glanced in the direction the dog had disappeared. "She said people were dying in them."
"Dying," James said tiredly. "They were torn to bits." He looked out the window, the morning light showing the lines of tension on his face, the shadows like bruises under his eyes. "I could feel my fingers, ripping into their flesh."
"But they were dreams?" Dean asked.
"Well, I woke up in my bed."
"Okay, so … dreams," Sam prodded.
"Not so sure," James said, looking at him. "Those people – they died. I checked with the precinct."
Sam inhaled. "Maybe you heard about it, and it stuck in your head?"
James smiled humourlessly at him. "You don't think I told myself that? You don't think I didn't say 'that wasn't me, I couldn't've done such a thing'?"
He turned away and picked up a plastic wrapped shirt from the wood basket beside the plain hearth. Pulling off the plastic, he dropped the shirt on the low table between them. The collar and front were a deep rust colour, spattered and soaked.
"Is it yours?" Sam looked at it.
James turned the shirt, showing the monogram on the breast pocket. JMF.
"Yeah, it's mine." He sat down in the armchair beside the table. "I woke up – I always wake up – in my bed. But I found this is the trash. And I found blood on the soap in the bathroom, on the tissues in the trash there." He leaned back. "What's happening to me?"
Dean sat down, looking at him. "You're the witch, James. Is it possible that you pissed off another one? Got a hex put on you?"
James rubbed his forehead with his fingertips. "You're talking about a spell that could control me, without my knowledge. Make me walk and talk and kill like a puppet."
"Yeah, that's what I'm talking about – you heard of anything like that?"
"No," James said. "But, I mean, relatively speaking, I'm young in this … I've been practising for five years and what I don't know …"
"Know the feeling," Sam said gently. "How can we find out?"
"Portia may be able to get some information from them." He looked up. "She's not … tainted … like I am, by what I do."
"How many of the dreams have you had?" Sam asked.
"Four," James said. "The last one was last night. It was a blind man."
Sam frowned. "Portia said the dreams have been coming for weeks?"
"The others, they weren't the same," James leaned forward in the chair. "They didn't have the vividness, all the senses involved. They started out like normal nightmares, you know. Images. Sounds. Not the smell and the feel and the taste." He closed his eyes as a shudder ran through him. "The first of the killing dreams was three weeks ago."
"Alright, James," Dean said quietly. "We're going to help you figure this out. But you're going to have to do your part."
"Which is?"
Dean caught the flare of hope in the other man's eyes and he reached down for the bag at his feet, lifting it with a clanking thump to the table between them. He unzipped it and pulled out a handful of iron chain.
"You're gonna have to stay put," he said bluntly, dropping the chain back into the bag. "House arrest, my friend."
Looking at the iron, James felt a frisson of fear. It would block him, as effectively as jessamine or mallow root or hawthorn. Stop him from reaching out or inwards to the power that had flowed for the last five years. He looked away, staring at the sunshine that lit up the wide windows, and nodded.
Sam looked up as the motel door opened, and his brother came through, holding up a paper bag.
"Got the last of it," Dean said, shutting the door and turning to the table.
"Right, well, I've been looking at the crime scene reports and they're exactly as James told us," Sam said flatly, looking down at the screen again. "Vics, dates, locations … the most recent one, last night, was a blind man."
"That's not good," Dean muttered, opening the bag and tipping out the two plastic bags inside it onto the table. One bag held chicken feet. Chilled. The other was filled with a black liquid, the drained liquid from a body buried for one week. Both bags were tightly sealed. The smell of the fluid had ejected every last morsel of his stomach's contents and it was only just starting to settle down.
"Also," Sam continued. "I looked into his record on the force. He went from rookie detective to lieutenant basically overnight, and in the last four years, his solve rate has been right at a hundred percent."
Dean looked at him. "Of course, he's got the 'booga-booga' on his side."
Sam nodded, and Dean turned back to the table.
"Man, you know we have never actually seen this witch-killing spell of Bobby's work? Right? I mean, this is not a sure thing."
Sam snorted. "Is anything we ever do a sure thing?"
"Well, no, but I'd just like to have the odds in our favour, as much as possible," Dean said, looking back at him.
Sam frowned as he sensed the conversation diverging from the spell to something else. "Right."
"Well, I'm concerned," Dean said.
Concerned, Sam thought. Right. His brother was no longer talking about the spell, but about the future. His future. Their future. The trials. Again. It wasn't a surprise. Terriers had nothing on Dean when it came to persistence.
"Concerned about the spell?" Sam asked, looking at the ingredients on the table. "Or that I'm going to mess these trials up?"
He watched Dean give up the pretence of worrying about the spell, putting down the bottle he'd been looking at, turning to face him.
"Look, we get too far down the road on this? We can't go back," Dean said. "And it'll be too late for me to jump in."
Sam looked away, feeling that mistrust again, the sense that his brother didn't think he had what was needed to keep going.
"Who says you're going to have to?" he said, looking at Dean in frustration. "You know, maybe I'll actually pull this one off."
"I'm just saying –"
"I know what you're saying," Sam cut in. "You've said it."
He closed the laptop and looked down at the lid. "I get that you can't trust me, Dean. I do. What I did, from the time you went to Hell, it was one road after another of good intentions that went so far south, I couldn't even see them anymore." He looked across at Dean. "And I didn't take them on. Didn't want to see your disappointment, again."
Dean sat down on the other bed, his face tightening at the rawness that filled Sam's voice.
"I ran. And it got worse. And now," he said slowly. "Now it feels like I've got another chance. But I need to know that at the least, you're not sitting around trying to figure out how to make it work because you think I'm going to fail."
Looking down at the floor, Dean didn't know how to answer him. He wanted to believe that Sam could do it, but Sam had too often taken the easier way, the more expedient way over the right way.
"I took Lucifer into the cage, Dean," Sam said softly. "But I didn't do that alone, I needed your help. Are you going to help with this?"
The silence stretched out between them and Sam looked away, not understanding his brother's doubts. He'd followed Dean since he'd been old enough to walk, old enough to understand that the bigger kid in his life was his protector, his teacher, his confidant and his tormentor, his best friend for most of the years they'd been growing up … his brother. He didn't feel like anything was impossible if Dean believed in it. Maybe that had always been the difference between the two of them.
Aware of the way Sam would take the silence, Dean couldn't give him the answer he wanted. It wasn't just the trust, although he guessed it was a big part of it. It was their history, their family, their life … how was he supposed to help his brother go down a path that could kill him? Even if he trusted Sam to finish the trials, to withstand whatever was coming …
"I don't know," he said finally, looking up. Sam nodded abruptly, turning away.
"Sam."
"Yeah."
Dean hesitated, looking at the set of his brother's shoulders. He didn't know if the anger that had filled Sam had really gone. Didn't know if he would have whatever he said thrown back at him somewhere down the line if it returned. He swallowed what he'd been about to say and stood up, going back to the table.
"You know, once I get this put together, we can't hesitate. If we've got to use it, we use it."
Sam felt his hope slip away, knowing that whatever Dean had wanted to say to him was gone. Dean trusted Dean, and that was all now. He couldn't blame him for it, but it stung him, down deep, that his brother wouldn't back him, wouldn't risk it again. He turned to look at him.
"You mean if we find the witch that's doing this to James," he said, feeling his disappointment transform into irritation at the tone in Dean's voice, the older brother who was preparing him for the hard facts of life tone.
"Or if there is no other witch," Dean clarified, hearing the irritation and shutting away his own.
"Or … it wouldn't be the first free pass we've given, Dean," Sam said, knowing as the words came out of his mouth that the situations weren't the same, weren't comparable in the slightest.
Dean looked down, his mouth twisting slightly as he heard the edge in Sam's voice. "Look, I like James, as much as the next guy, but people are getting ganked here, Sam. Besides, Benny, and that girl, they were forced to be what they are. James chose this."
Under the words, Sam heard the other ones, the unspoken ones. When trust was broken, only time could heal the pieces, he thought. Time to earn it again. Time to prove it again. Fighting with his brother had never gotten him anywhere. In addition to persistent, Dean was stubborn. More so than their father, hard as that was to believe. He wondered if that had come from their mother, that thick streak of stubbornness that never let him give in or give up, kept him going in the face of everything that was thrown at him.
Sam looked at the suit laid on the bed and shook his head. "No, I'll play Special Agent, you keep your face out of sight and follow up with Portia."
"What? Why?"
"Seven years isn't long enough for the locals to have forgotten what you look like, Dean, and there's no statute of limitation on murder anyway," Sam turned back to the mirror, knotting his tie. "They don't have my picture floating around and I'm not in the database with a red flag."
Dean looked at the suit for a moment and shrugged, picking it up and folding it up again. First perk of the day, he thought.
"You'll need some wheels."
Sam nodded. "I'll rent something … federal looking." He looked at Dean's reflection in the mirror. "Stay in touch and watch yourself."
"Yeah, you too." Dean walked to the door and left the room and a moment later Sam heard the black car's engine turn over, the deep idle chugging as it reversed out and down the drive to the street.
He smoothed the front of the tie down and pulled out his phone, calling a taxi.
The rental company gave him a bland Ford sedan, silver-grey, a car that would be forgotten the second it passed out of view and he got in, driving down to the precinct shop and parking out the front. Need a federal parking tag too, he thought, making a mental note to let Yavoklevich know when they were done here. It probably wouldn't fly with the Impala, but for occasions like this it would be helpful.
The desk sergeant directed him to Joshua Mankowitz, the tech who was handling the evidence on the cases. Sam introduced himself, noting with only a little amusement the brightening of Joshua's expression as he shook hands with a federal agent.
"I need to see the detective in charge," Sam said, looking around. "And I'd like your impressions of the scenes."
Joshua nodded, gesturing across the room. "I'll take you. What do you want to know?"
"I heard the vics were all torn up pretty bad," Sam said, following him.
"Like someone shredded them with their bare hands," Joshua said, looking back at him as they passed into another area. Sam glanced around, the bullpen familiar from a hundred other cop stations, bigger, noisier, more modern perhaps.
"Ed!" Joshua lifted his hand as they approached an older man in a dark brown suit, turning from the files he was looking through.
"Ed Stoltz," Joshua said to Sam. "He's lead on the case."
Sam crossed the narrow room to the detective, holding out his hand as Joshua followed him.
"Special Agent Keith," the technician said as the two men shook hands.
"Joshua tells me you don't have a lot to go on," Sam said, looking down at him.
"Yeah. Isolated parts of the city. Vics who meant nothing to nobody," Stoltz said, glancing at the technician and back to Sam.
"Right," Sam said, tucking his notebook into his jacket pocket. "Yeah, well my partner and I took a look at the crime scenes –"
"Things really must be slow at the Bureau," Ed said, with a laugh. "Locations have already been knocked out."
"Well," Sam said, pulling a zip-lock plastic bag from his pocket. "We did manage to find this piece of fabric." He handed the bag to Ed, the frayed piece of white cloth inside half-stained with a dark rust coloured fluid. "Things get overlooked. It happens."
Ed took the bag and looked at it, the laughter gone as he straightened it out.
"Why don't you run the blood? Could be the vic, could be the doer. Let's see if we get a match," Sam suggested.
Stoltz handed the bag to Joshua, staring up at the cool expression on the tall agent's face.
"A witness did mention seeing a man in a suit and a white shirt leaving the area," he offered lightly.
"You didn't mention a witness in your report," Sam said, frowning at him. "Anything else?"
"No." Stoltz stared at him. "We'll get back to you on the labwork. So if that's all …"
"Sure, but this witness –" Sam started to say and the detective cut him off.
"That's all that was said, Agent Keith." Stoltz shook his head. "We really don't have a lot here to go on. We'll be in touch."
Sam watched him walk back to the files. Antagonistic. And afraid, he thought. Of what? He'd just met the man but he could feel him raising his defences. Jurisdiction? Worried the fibbies were going to take his collar? Then why pretend that they were at a standstill. Or was that the reason for the brushoff?
He turned away, walking out through the narrow aisles between the cubicles, wondering how long before he could follow up with Joshua. The tech didn't seem to have any problems with a multi-jurisdictional investigation.
Portia slid out of the passenger seat gracefully, dress riding up a little on the long thighs and catching Dean's attention. He looked away, focussing on the building next to them.
"What's this place?"
She smiled lazily at him. "Call yourself a hunter and you don't know about Midnight's?"
"We've been too busy to keep up with the social side of things," he said sardonically.
"It's a bar. A safe house. A place where information can be found and exchanged with no danger to the giver or receiver," she said, walking to the graffiti-covered door and knocking once. "It's neutral ground."
The door opened and a small man looked up at her, tilting his head further to one side to look up at Dean. "Password."
"The door to December," Portia said briskly and the man moved aside, opening the door wider.
Dean looked back as the old man closed the door behind them. From the front, the door had looked ordinary, steel but nothing special. Against the back, a locking ring and dozens of bolts layered it, and they moved on their own, the ring turning and the bolts clunking into their holes obediently.
"Neutral for who?" he asked belatedly, catching up and following her through a wide hall and down a set of marble stairs.
"For all of us," Portia said. "Witch and familiar, beast and human and monster and spirit."
They reached the bottom and he looked around a big room, a bar of a black, polished wood, the top inside with an underlit panel of some kind of white material, painted or inlaid with red designs, taking up one wall, sofas and armchairs grouped together around the walls, the centre filled with small tables. The lighting was soft and diffused, a tint of silver to it that made the skin of the patrons gleam like metal, and quiet music filling the space and masking the details of the conversations around them.
A beautiful girl walked toward them, tall and slender, with smooth pale skin and long, loose hair spilling over her shoulders and down her back. Dean stopped, staring at her as she walked past, his eyes widening a little as he realised that her hair was silver-white, glittering slightly as she passed under the suspended overhead lights.
"Don't stare," Portia hissed at him, her fingers closing around his arm and tugging. He turned away, glancing back again.
"Unicorn," the familiar told him.
"What?"
"She's a unicorn," Portia said a tiny bit more loudly. "I told you, this place is safe for everyone."
"I thought unicorns were horses," he said, stumbling a little as he looked back.
"Almost every magical creature can change its form, Dean," she said impatiently. "I thought you knew about this stuff."
"Apparently not," he muttered to himself, turning back and following her as she threaded her way between the tables. "How did James find you anyway?"
"Not the way it works. The familiar finds the witch," she said lightly. "And they become inseparable."
"I guess a lot of people feel that way about their pets," Dean commented, looking at a group sitting at a table, all four having the same features, the same golden eyes, four faces turning to watch him as he passed. Not at all creepy.
In front of him, Portia stopped and looked up at him, her face still and cold. "I'm not James' pet."
"Well," he said, smiling down at her. "Not all the time."
She stepped close to him, long fingers curling tightly into the lapels of his coat. "Not … ever!"
"Ah …," Dean said, looking around uncomfortably. "Making a kind of a scene here."
"The witch and the familiar form an unbreakable bond. A melding of our souls, entwined, never to be separated," she said, ignoring his comment. "We would die for each other."
Looking down at her, Dean saw the flash of … something … in her eyes again. The same something he'd seen before. Whatever the melding, bonding thing she had with James, he thought, there was something about it that was making her afraid … or ashamed. The look was gone and she released him, stepping back, her expression smoothing out.
"There," she said, looking past him to a sofa grouping against the wall and walking rapidly toward the man who sat alone there.
"Portia," the man said with a slow smile. "Where have you been, luscious thing?"
She smiled coolly at him. "Dean, meet Phillipe leChat. Dean's a Wiccan, from Detroit."
Phillipe eyed him consideringly. "Really?"
Dean smiled politely and edged along the sofa as Portia sat down.
"Spencer here?" Portia asked Phillipe.
"Somewhere," Phillipe said, gesturing to the room languidly.
They both turned to look at Dean as he sneezed suddenly.
"That's weird," Dean said, looking at Portia. "That only happens around cats."
Phillipe smiled a little and looked at the slender woman. "Tell me about James. There's a lot of … buzz … out there."
Portia's smile faded. "All gossip." Feeling Dean's gaze on her, she flicked a glance to him. "The community has a little … attitude … going."
Phillipe leaned forward, lifting a shoulder in a careless shrug. "He brings it on himself, my dear."
"After four years of everyone thinking he could no wrong?" she asked bitingly.
Dean watched the man stretch, frowning at the familiarity of the image, the connection eluding him.
"James isn't stupid, darling. He had to have to known the bloom would fade when everyone knew that he wasn't going to be covering up their mistakes for them." Phillipe turned to look at Dean. "That, in fact, he would go after anyone who made mistakes in this town."
"He didn't change, Phillipe," Portia said coldly. "Everyone else did."
"No." Phillipe looked at his fingernails. "No one changed, they just realised what they'd let in the door. And then … there was you, dearest."
Dean looked from the man to the woman beside him, feeling her stiffen slightly at the innocuous-sounding words. She was rigid, and again a teasing familiarity struck him, of another image, clear and unmistakable this time, a dog rigid before an attack.
"It isn't done, Portia … and you know it."
"I'm sorry," Dean said, looking at him. "What isn't done?"
"Portia."
They turned to see a tall, thin man standing behind them, his face almost cadaverous in the silvery light. The close-set dark grey eyes turned to Dean and he felt a moment's nausea, looking into them, heard a faint whispering voice in his mind … Nybbas eum tangere.
"Uh … I'm a Wiccan," he said, dragging his gaze from the man's, looking down distractedly. "From Detroit."
The man looked at him for a moment longer, before closing his eyes briefly and looking back to the woman seated beside him.
"Spencer's an Adept," she told Dean, and he looked back at the man standing next to him, feeling the nausea vanish as suddenly as it had come.
"Oh, okay." He pulled his thoughts back hurriedly. "You ever heard of a spell where a witch can control the actions of another witch?"
"No." Spencer looked down at him, shaking his head slightly. "I've never heard of a thing like that. It would require more power than any witch could possibly derive from it or could wield on their own. I doubt that it's even possible." The witch looked at Portia.
"How's James?"
"Better," she said quietly. "I'll tell him you asked."
He nodded, mouth tightening a little, his face drawn. "Phillipe, it's time we were going."
"Of course," Phillipe said, shifting forward on the sofa and looking at Portia. "Goodnight."
She nodded to him and he turned to look at Dean, mouth lifting in a slow, mocking smile.
"It was so nice to meet you," he said. Dean's eyes widened as the pale brown eyes shifted to feline green, the pupil elongated into a vertical slit, and a deep purr emerged from his chest. The man shifted in an eyeblink, human gone and a large jet-black cat standing on the sofa where he'd been. Spencer dropped his hand to the cat's head, stroking gently.
The adept picked up the cat and walked away, and Dean watched him go, wiping his nose with one hand as he sniffed at the tickle still present. He felt like he'd been inhaling cat hair.
"I knew it."