A Nasty Nest 2
"The wicked queen has fled
And Wormwood seems quite dead.
All is looking well
For Galavant."
The singer swept an arm in a long gesture as he belted out the last phrase.
"Dude," Dean hissed to Sam. "What the ever-loving fuck?"
Sam's eyes were riveted on the clown - jester, actually. Dean noted Sam's pale skin and quick breathing and started to say something, but the singer went on:
"King Richard has his throne.
His pal Gal and wife, they have a home.
Everybody's living swell,
So is Galavant."
"Sam. It's not a clown. It's a jester. I think. It's...um...different. Relax." Sam kept his eyes pinned on the man and swallowed. Then he jerked his head in a quick, reluctant nod of agreement.
"But then the deaths began...
And Gal's pal formed up a plan.
Richard sent for Sporin
And for Galavant."
"This. Is. Crazy. What, have we stumbled across some weird Broadway musical rehearsal?" Dean snarled. It was a catchy tune, though; he caught himself nodding in time without realizing it. Gritting his teeth, he called out, "Dude! Who are you, and what's with the damn singing?!"
The man held up a finger, drew another breath, and went into another verse.
"Neo Sporin cast a spell
To find someone to help us well.
And now I'm taking the two of you
To Galavant."
He ended the song with enthusiasm, then stood there, looking at them expectantly.
The boys just gaped at him.
"Well? What are you waiting for?" the man asked finally. He folded his lips and gestured gracefully to the path. "The King and Sir Galavant are just down the path. Come on!" He waved at them, turned, and started back that way.
Dean looked at Sam. Sam looked back. Without a word, acting as one, they advanced on the singer, smashed him backward into a tree trunk. Dean drew
his machete and held it at his throat. The pole clattered to the ground, bells jingling, and the man flinched at having two decidedly dangerous men peering at him from only a foot away. He whimpered.
"Who are you?" Sam asked in a harsh voice. "What are you doing here...singing - " He sputtered the word out. " - when there's a vampire hunting these woods?!" The singer's eyes widened.
"Vampire...?" he whispered.
Dean pressed with the machete. A thin line of blood sprang up on the man's neck. He tilted his head, peered at him thoughtfully. "Hey, here's a thought, Sam. Maybe this dude is a vampire, too..."
"What - ?!" the man squeaked, jerking his head back and forth to look at both of them, trying to avoid the machete. "Me - ?! No, no, you've got it all wr - " He stopped as Dean pressed even harder.
Sam leaned forward, one arm resting on the tree trunk by the man's head, looming over him. "Maybe you should just cut his head off," he said, pursing his lips at Dean, eyebrows lifted.
"Cut - ! My head - !" the man gasped. Then he paled even further and slid bonelessly down the tree trunk, chin scraping past the machete, in a dead faint.
Dean looked down at him for a moment. Then he rubbed the back of his head. "Hunh. Guess not."
Sam looked down, too, forehead wrinkled in a puzzled frown. "Dean. What the hell?!"
"Damned if I know, Sammy." Dean looked around the clearing, frowning and chewing his lips. "This is totally weird." He sheathed the machete again. Sam's hand gripped his forearm.
"Are you sure you should do that?" He nodded at the weapon. "We may need them out..." Dean squinted at him, thought, nodded, and pulled it out once more.
"So..." He turned his attention to the path the man had come from. "Go check it out?" he asked. Sam nodded.
They started down the path. As they walked, a dim light began to illuminate the way before them with a warm glow; it grew brighter, and they entered a much larger clearing. Dean stopped dead, staring at the scene ahead of them.
"Holy shit. Moondor." His stomach tightened. They'd been to Moondor gatherings a few times while Charlie was still alive. But now she was dead, and things had been so grim and dark that they hadn't had a chance. Besides. Charlie. He hissed in a breath, punched the grief down ruthlessly. Vampires and Moondor was a bad combination; the gathering would be a total feast for vamps, what with everyone expecting a good time, role-playing, fake fights. They wouldn't know what to do with a real, live vampire cutting through them like a scythe.
"I'm not so sure, Dean..." Sam murmured, shrewd eyes taking in the torches, tents, sounds, smells, and spectacle before them. "Look. Horses." He pointed. Dean looked in that direction and frowned.
"Hunh." He chewed on it for a few moments. Real horses? In Moondor? Naw. Sam was right. This was something different.
"Another role-playing group?"
Sam shook his head. "I don't think so."
They had cautiously kept back at the edge of the clearing, out of sight. The view in front had captured their attention, so it took a moment for Dean's brain to register that some of the sounds he was hearing were behind them, not in front, and close. Very close. Without further warning, strong hands grabbed them, wrestled their machetes away, and pinned their arms behind their backs. Then they were being pushed forward into the light.
"Now, then, let's see what we've got 'ere. Who're you, and why're you lurkin' about like this, near King Richard's camp?" The voice was deep and rough, with an English accent. The man who spoke moved into view in front of them, and stood looking them over with arms crossed over very serious, very real, leather and armor. Dean scanned him quickly, aware he was returning the favor. Not quite as tall as him. Muscular. Bald head. Scars. Shrewd eyes. Mid- to late-forties. Tough-looking customer.
He vaguely noticed Sam struggling against the arms holding him. He knew Sam's attention was focused as tightly as his was, and he probably was coming to the same conclusion: No role-playing going on here.
Baldy took a step forward, squinting dangerously at him. "Soldiers, yeah. C'n see that, fer sure. And maybe..." He stepped forward again, leaning his head in to Dean. "...just maybe...you two might know what happened to our King's Fool, too. Eh?" He accompanied the question with a quick, sharp poke of his fist to Dean's guts that took his breath away. Not a punch, but not gentle, either. "Fool's a nice enough fella. No good in a fight, but okay. Good singin' voice, and aces with Charades. If y've done anything to him..." He let his voice trail off.
This was definitely not a Good Situation.
Dean pointed back the way they had come with his head. "Tall guy? Hat with bells? Sort of...uh...colorful?"
Baldy's jaw moved sideways, as if he were chewing on something hard that didn't taste good. He nodded without a word, eyes cold.
"Uh. I think we scared him. He fainted."
Baldy squinted at him. Then his eyes shifted over his shoulder and he jerked his chin at someone behind him, indicating the path. Dean could hear leather creaking, armor clinking, footsteps moving off. Then Baldy spun around and started towards the tents, saying, "Bring 'em along." The hard hands shoved at his back, pushing him in that direction. The soldiers behind Sam did the same.
They ended up in front of the largest tent, one with multiple peaks. Each peak had a pennant flying. There were more soldiers milling about an open fire, who eyed them narrowly as they were shoved forward, through the opening of the tent. The soldiers holding them pushed them down to their knees on the floor in front of a long, dainty, gilded table.
A man stood behind the table, back to them. He had long, wavy, salt and pepper hair, and was dressed much more richly than the soldiers, in some medieval kind of clothes decorated with embroidery and gilt threading. He was wearing a...was that an actual crown?! And...and...did he have a sword belted at his side?!
Baldy cleared his throat. His face relaxed, with a hint of a fond expression. He said, gruffly, "Sire."
The man (king?!) turned around, saying lightly, "Ah! Gareth!"
Baldy - Gareth - was saying something in response, but Dean didn't hear it. He was frozen in place, a spike of fear and shock chilling him. He heard Sam gasp, stunned, beside him.
Cain. It was Cain.
He and Sam spoke at the same time.
"Cain!" Dean growled.
"But you're dead!" Sam choked out.