AN: Hello again! It is so lovely to read your comments. I've responded to them individually after the chapter.
Sarcasm is my native tongue, and that is abundantly clear in this chapter! I seem unable to write a story with a sassy OC.
Anyway, I hope you enjoy this look at things from Dean's perspective.
Beta'd by Jenjoremy for content, clarity, and pace and by Janice for all that and grammar.
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Dean eyed the little white clapboard house that they were walking up to with distrust. It was the home of the probable witch Celeste McRae and as such should have windchimes made of bones or something else to reveal the danger within in Dean's opinion. Instead, the railing of the long, narrow porch across the front was covered in pots of trailing flowers and a cutsie wreath hung on the door. To the side, there was even a little vegetable garden.
He hated it. Dean much preferred for monsters to live in dank caves or lairs strewn with victims' clothing and to look monstrous. Ones that fit right in among the Smiths and Joneses creeped him out.
Dad apparently had no such qualms. He strode right up to the front door and knocked, confident that Dean would be on his six. Knowing this woman was almost certainly a witch, Dean would've gone straight for more of a pounding than a knock – a it's-the-cops-open-or-we-break-it-down. Dad didn't ratchet down to wanna-buy-some-thin-mints polite rapping, but hit a midpoint, something like a have-you-thought-about-the-afterlife knock. Dean knew that he was only that nice because they didn't have actual proof this chick was a spell-caster, but still. He was not fan of witches; less of those who kidnapped babies.
The door opened to reveal a perfectly ordinary-looking old woman. (Figured. Freak.) She wore simple jeans and a plain peacock blue t-shirt, but there were little details that gave her a slight Bohemian feel – gray hair in a low pony tail that hung over one shoulder and flowery sandals for example – but no jewelry at all and none of the over-the-top accouterments that Dean associated with frou-frou New Age types.
"Good morning," Dad said politely. "We're –"
"Hunters." Celeste sighed. "Not who I was expecting when I felt the weight of your destinies." She studied them for a second, then shrugged and turned to walk back inside. "Well, c'mon in and ask me about the missing babies, then." She sounded resigned.
When neither man moved, she called over her shoulder, "I swear I've deactivated all of the portals to Hell and my cauldron's at the shop, so it's safe to come in."
Dad and Dean exchanged unimpressed looks and warily followed. The weight of your destinies? Who the hell talks like that?
The inside of the house was as perfectly ordinary as the outside. It was personalized without being overly kitschy and neat but not oppressively so.
The witch sat down in an upholstered rocking chair and waved for them to take a seat as well, which they did. She was holding a steaming mug. "I'm Celeste, as I'm sure you already know. I'd offer you tea or coffee, but I'm certain you wouldn't eat or drink anything from me." She took an unhurried sip. "Yes, I practice witchcraft. No, I didn't make a deal for power with a demon, mine is all natural. No, I didn't do anything to any babies. In fact, if I knew what it was, I'd try to stop it."
Dad looked grim. He gave her one of his soul-piercing stares. "You perform witchcraft and live right in the center of all the abductions and expect us to believe you being here is a coincidence?"
Celeste stared right back at him. "I have lived here longer than you've been alive. You think I could be right out in the open all this time and never get on a hunter's radar before if I was into the dark side of the craft?" She scoffed. "Impossible. Black magic practitioners can't stay in one place very long because they spread rot and even the non-magic can see it after a while. But let me guess – you don't believe it's possible to have magic without turning evil, right?"
"In my experience, it's impossible to use magic without eventually turning evil," Dad corrected. "Which is why we are going to destroy your altar and any grimoires but leave you alone as long as you promise to stay away from magic in the future."
Celeste threw her head back and laughed and the sound sent skitters down Dean's spine. "You deluded child! There is something out there – something old and angry that doesn't belong in this part of the world – eating babies, and you are coming after me? A hedge witch who makes tinctures for her neighbors to help with colic or insomnia or stomach upset and makes plants grow better?
"I let you in because I could sense you don't kill indiscriminately and you try to never kill humans. What if I told you that I have never killed a human being? Could you say the same?"
Dean tried not to squirm but be as stoic as Dad, who was still trying to stare her into submission. Dean knew better than to let a witch get under his skin, but damn she was convincing. Movement made him startle, and he pulled his gun halfway before realizing it was just a chubby tuxedo cat meandering over.
Celeste's eyes narrowed. "Hubris is just a cat. Not magic, not a familiar. But if you hurt him, I might rethink my policy about killing."
Dad gave Dean a c'mon, man look and he sheepishly put the gun back. Hubris flopped unceremoniously on the floor and began to rub his head against Celeste's shoe. Dean kept one eye on him anyway because he'd always thought cats were sketchy as hell.
"If you threaten my son again, I'll rethink my policy about killing humans," Dad promised. He and the witch glared at each other until Dean would swear he could see electricity crackling in the air.
"Uh, so, if we all want to find what's taking babies, maybe less staring and more sharing?" Dean suggested. He didn't really believe the witch was all sunshine and roses, but if she was willing to share information they could certainly use the help. "I mean, if you aren't the one making kid-kabobs or raising your own baby army or whatever, you won't mind sharing what you know, huh?
"Then we can go back to ganking baddies and you can knit sweaters for the orphans in Rwanda or whatever. Whaddaya say?"
For a moment, he thought it wouldn't work, then both Dad and Celeste deflated slightly.
"Fine," Celeste snapped. "I'll do a scrying right now for you and see what I can learn. In exchange, you'll give me your names." Dad started to say something but she talked right over him. "And the name of the third one. Then you knuckle-dragging Neanderthals will get the hell out of my house and go back to listening to Conway Twitty sing about life on the road and drinking kerosene or whatever it is you do when you aren't killing anything that doesn't fit into your neat little boxes."
"There's no third one," Dad said, ignoring the rest of her words.
"There is. Besides sending out some very negative feelings toward me, the strongest thing he is projecting is worry over the one who isn't here." She pointed a long finger at Dean. When he went to protest, she said, "It isn't eavesdropping if you're screaming, boy. I can't hear thoughts, but I can't help catch feelings when they're so strong."
Dean felt vaguely dirty.
To his shock, Dad nodded. "Fine. I'm John and that's Dean. Sam isn't here."
"Dad," he protested, then cursed as he realized he'd just given her yet another piece of information.
"Last name," Celeste insisted. She stood and pulled a few stalks of something out of a vase on the mantle that held an assortment of dried flowers and the like.
Dad grit his teeth, but answered, "Winchester." He looked like the word had been pulled from him with a pliers and Dean wondered if Celeste had forced him somehow.
Celeste nodded and sat again. Humming, she took what looked like corn husks and twine and folded and twisted and tied until she had a crude humanoid shape. A poppet, Dean realized.
Still humming, Celeste set the doll aside and opened a jar candle and lit it with a long-handled lighter. The scent of lemon reached Dean. Celeste sat down again and held the doll in front of herself and stared at it intently. The cat jumped up on the arm of her chair and she pet it absently.
It all looked very mundane. She didn't pull out any weird ingredients like gnat's testicles and burn them in a bowl or mutter strange things or even make gestures with her hands. Nothing changed – no smoke or smells (other than the candle, which had a cheery little sunshine on the jar) or flashing lights – but the hair on the back of Dean's neck stood up all the same. There was no doubt in his mind that Celeste was the real deal.
"It's old," she muttered. "So old. It was stolen from its home and now it can't find its caves. No one will bargain, it can't find anyone who understands it. It is angry." Suddenly, Celeste startled, the poppet falling to the floor in front of her. The cat leaped after it and bit one of its arms off, but she didn't seem to notice.
"It's there, with the other one. With Sam," she said urgently. "You need to get there. Take iron." She stood and grabbed a fireplace poker. "Here." She shoved it in Dad's hands. "Why are you still sitting here?!" she demanded. "If it eats the child it wants, her mother won't survive." Her eyes fell on Dean. "And if it eats your brother, you won't survive."
Dean's heart twisted with fear. He should doubt every word that came out of her mouth but her worry seemed as genuine as her anger had earlier. Dad was dialing his phone and listening. He hung up and tried a different number. While he did, Celeste turned on a tiny TV that was so old you had to turn a heavy knob to change the channels. She fussed for a moment, then found a station with a weatherman pointing to a close-up map.
"...phenomenon. It doesn't seem to be moving in this direction, but people need to keep an eye out because we don't know yet what made this system appear so suddenly. There have been a few like this across the Southwest this summer and they can be extremely dangerous. Heavy rain, lightning, and I can't completely rule out a tornado…"
"Where is that?" Dean demanded, pointing to the center of the map, the one surrounded by arrows.
"Dunkle."
"Dad?"
Dad stood. "I can't reach him. We better go check it out." To Celeste, he said, "We'll be back."
She all but pushed them out the door. "Fine. Just don't let another baby die!"
Dad tossed his phone to Dean as he strode to the car. "Keep trying Sam," he directed.
Dean wanted to ask if Dad bought into the mumbo-jumbo Celeste had spewed but he also knew how much Dad detested questions when he was focused.
"Oh, Celeste!" called a young woman from the next yard over. The arm not holding a toddler waved. "Thank you so much for the fresh tomatoes! Are you sure I can't pay you?"
"Of course not, dear," called Celeste, going from Endora to Grandma Walton on a dime.
Dean didn't hear any more as he slammed the door shut and called the number of the apartment where Sam was staying. It rang and rang and nobody answered. He tried the POS motel where Sam was working with the same result, which bothered him more. The owner was a little creep, but it wasn't good practice to have nobody manning the phone. He repeated both calls by the time they hit the highway, Dad driving almost as fast as Dean would have in the same situation.
Then the phone rang and Dean nearly dropped it. "'Lo? Sammy?"
"Dean? Bobby. You talked to Sam?"
Dean immediately put it on speaker. "No, Bobby. We can't reach him. And, uh, we got wind somethin's going on in the town where he is."
"We're on our way now. What do you know?" Dad asked.
"He called me when he couldn't reach you," Bobby said. "He figured out a weather pattern. Everywhere a baby disappeared, the area got a bunch of rain out of the blue after. And these are all places hit by drought who just held some kinda rain rally. He suspected somethin' was thinkin' they were offerin' a deal, baby for rain."
"Do you know what it is?" Dean asked urgently. "We're heading that way and holy shit are there dark clouds ahead! And where Sam is? Is he safe?"
"Hang on and let me talk, Dean. Sam called back and said he thought somethin' was goin' down. I told him to hunker down, but he had some idea of what baby was in danger and, well, you know what he's like. I can't get him either, but that don't necessarily mean he's in the thick of things."
"You know what it is?" Dad phrased it as a question, but it really wasn't intended as one. Dad was a crackerjack researcher, but he had nothing on Bobby.
"It's gotta be an acalica. Bolivian fae that can affect the weather. They hide in caves and usually look like little old men. How the hell one got here – who knows? But it's either pissed or confused and it's trading rain for babies."
Dad swore at the word 'fae' and again when Bobby paused. Fae were always wily and tough to kill. He pushed the Impala to even greater speed.
"How do we kill it, Bobby?" Dean asked. The sky in the distance was so dark it looked unreal, like someone had been painting the daytime sky, run out of blue, and abruptly switched to black.
"I'm gettin' there, boy," Bobby snapped, though it was his patented pretending to be grumpier than he actually was, and Dean had stopped falling for that about the same time he learned to tie his shoes. "They ain't known to cause trouble much – they prefer to hide away. But there's some weather-wixes, specialized witches, I guess, who bring 'em gifts and sometimes convince 'em to change the weather. They don't talk about killin' 'em but there is some stuff about trappin' 'em. They lure 'em in with nice-smellin' flowers and coffee beans to bargain or to trap one that's misbehavin'. Then they block 'em in a cave or whatever with wood from the Andean fever tree.
"Those trees don't grow in the U.S., but iron hurts 'em and can trap 'em, like most fae. Best I can figure, you can trap it in iron and torch the sucker."
"You told Sam this?" Dean asked.
"Didn't get a chance. He's gotta be a big damn hero. Wonder where he learned that."
"From you, maybe," Dean muttered. His worry was increasing by the minute. Although he could tell from the sound of the V8 big block they were doing better than 80 miles an hour, he wished Dad would go even faster.
Bobby started to retort but Dad was faster. "Singer, what kinda tree is that again?"
"Hang on – Andean fever tree, also called cinchona."
"Quinine," Dad muttered.
"What now?" asked Dean.
Dad ignored him. "Thanks, Singer."
There was a rustle of papers. "You better call and let me know what's happening. And Winchester? Dean? You're headin' for a mess."
"No kidding," muttered Dean. He could literally see the line where the rain started and it was falling heavily enough that he couldn't see anything beyond it. They were miles out of town, and it was impossible to see anything past the line where the rain started, meaning they'd have to slow way down.
"I see it. Gotta go," Dad answered, tightening his grip on the wheel.
"Be careful," were Bobby's last words.
"We gotta find a bar," Dad decided. "I think they'll have something that can fight this thing."
Though he couldn't stand even the thought of stopping before they found Sam, Dean's no died on his lips. Dad was never convinced by direct opposition, something Dean hoped Sam would learn soon. "There's one not a block from that apartment. Why don't you drop me by the motel Sam's working at and check out the bar and apartment?"
Dad's fingers tapped the steering wheel. "Yeah. If you find him first, hunker down where you are. If there's nothing there, head toward the apartment." Every line of his body was tense and it sure wasn't helping Dean stay calm.
"What are the chances he figured out which baby's gonna be taken anyway?" Dean asked aiming for light-hearted.
Dad glanced over and raised an eyebrow. "About the same chances of him solving a serial killer's cipher before the police did."
Dean sighed. Dad was referencing a case from six months prior. Their monster had turned out to be a human, and it was Sam who cracked the psycho's code. An anonymous tip to the cops and the Winchesters had moved on. So, yeah, he'd probably figured out where the monster was.
"Hang on," Dad warned as they crossed from clear skies to driving rain.
Yeah, Sam, thought Dean. Hang on.
WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER
Sam wasn't about to go down without a fight, even if it kind of seemed like he'd already lost. He bent up at the waist and aimed the torch at the arm holding him. The monster shrieked, shook him, then dropped him.
Sam had anticipated the drop but not the shake that sent him crashing shoulder first into the footboard. He rolled with the movement and ended up on the floor on the opposite side of the bed. His left arm went instantly numb from the impact, but at least he hadn't dropped the torch. From his new vantage point, he could see the frame was old and bent and one of the fine spindles was nearly broken off. He grabbed it and wrenched on it, but only one end came free. He set down the torch to pull harder, then he was suddenly lifted in the air by his bad arm. He barely had time to yelp before he was tossed against the wall.
The impact stunned Sam. He found himself in a heap on the floor with blood in his mouth and a pair of long, spindly legs blocking his way to the torch and bedframe. The creature grinned again – or maybe it always looked like that – and reached down while Sam lifted a shaky hand up in a poor attempt to protect himself.
Then Mira made a noise from inside the closet that Sam could just hear over the sound of the rain pelting everything. The monster lifted its head, distracted, and moved in that direction.
"No, no, no," Sam chanted. He dove forward, grabbed the torch, and gave the loosened spindle a blast of fire at its base. Since his left arm wasn't obeying him at all, he dropped the implement again and, with a wince, grabbed the hot metal. He rolled onto his back and yelled, "Leave her alone!"
The monster was already bending forward as if to reach over the headboard and pick Mira up, but it stopped long enough to snarl at Sam.
It was enough. Using the countless hours worth of practice with a pencil, Sam flicked the broken off bit of metal right into the gaping mouth.
The tree-man screamed and clawed at its own throat, then turned furious orange eyes toward Sam. The good news: it was focused fully on him now. The bad news: it was focused fully on him now.
Sam got to his feet with all the finesse of a newborn giraffe and stumbled toward the apartment's main room. Ducking a swipe from the monster sent Sam spiraling off to the side, his equilibrium not up to the task of sudden direction changes. He fell hard into a radiator, which was only anchored to the wall on one side and hardly slowed his fall.
The monster's foot came right at Sam as if to stomp him like an ant and, lacking options, he pulled the radiator between them, hearing the ancient pipes groan as they were strained. The monster didn't – maybe couldn't – stop and with a painful-sounding crunch, its foot went right between two of the slats.
Then it really screamed and Sam scrambled backwards as it frantically shook its leg. It only managed to get the leg even farther through the metal. Metal. Sam had inadvertently found the biggest, most solid piece of iron in the whole place.
Enraged and in pain, the monster jumped up and down and flailed its arms. Then it did the worst (best) thing possible and tried to repeat its folding and growing trick. As its torso completed yet another expansion, the trapped leg tried the same thing and got stuck halfway through, wedged in even more firmly than before. The monster had become a caricature of itself, its body and one arm elongated to ridiculous lengths while still as thin as before, one leg bent backwards just above the knee, stuck mid-stretch, and the other limbs still shorter.
Weak with relief that it was at least temporarily neutralized, Sam tried to crawl back toward Mira. He fell flat on his face and decided the weakness was from more than just relief. He ended up doing a sort of one-armed army crawl.
"I'm coming," he panted to the infant, who was just making soft snuffling noises now. He deliberately didn't look at his side, which felt sticky and wet. He didn't know exactly what he'd done to it or when, but he had no way to deal with it anyway.
He scooted right under the bed and curled up around Mira, whose bright eyes looked up at him. Sam arranged himself on his side with his back toward the room and propped her head on the bicep of his good arm so she'd be warm enough even though the temperature had to have dropped thirty degrees since the morning. The monster was still screaming and crashing around, and the sound of rain was now mingled with taps and thuds, making Sam think it was probably hailing. He had no idea what to do. Even if he could make it around the creature to the door, he couldn't walk, much less carry a baby to safety.
"There is one thing I can do," he told her softly, smiling when her forehead wrinkled as if she were listening intently. "I can talk to you. Let you know you're not alone." His voice nearly broke on the last word from fatigue and fear, but somehow looking at the baby's little face helped ground him. He didn't know what to say, but luckily she had no idea what anything meant anyway. Besides, he could remember Dean reading schoolbooks aloud to get him to fall asleep when he was small because the sound of a calm voice is soothing all on its own.
"Did you know that your name is part of the Latin word that means wonderful? It is, I swear. Mirabilis means amazing or wonderful. I bet the word miracle comes from that too. I know a lot of Latin because my dad thinks it's important. One time, he told us – me and my brother – that we had to memorize 20 new Latin words in a week, but he didn't tell us which ones. So my brother Dean looked up every naughty word he could think of! We thought we were so clever."
Mira, calmed by Sam's warmth and voice, slowly fell asleep despite all the noise coming from just outside their little haven. Sam felt himself drifting too, but knew it wasn't sleepiness but the injuries and that succumbing likely meant passing out.
Don't fall asleep. Don't fall asleep. He repeated the words over and over in his mind. Finally, despite the danger and the cacophony, his eyes slipped closed and didn't open again.
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AN: Endora refers to a character from the 1960's and 70's TV show "Bewitched." She's a redheaded witch, mother to a main character, is very powerful, and causes a lot of mischief. Sound familiar?
Grandmother Walton was a character on the 1970's TV show "The Waltons." The character was an archetypal "tough but loving" grandparent.
Acalica do actually come from Bolivian lore and look like little old men and can control the weather. But the rest of it is all from my whack-a-doodle brain. But c'mon, are you really surprised by that?
Mirabilis really does mean wonderful. It's also a very pretty flower, but I didn't think Sam would know that.
Shazza: Thank you! Yeah, you know Sam is in trouble in pretty much everything I write. He's my Lois Lane! LOL. Bobby got in touch with the other two Winchesters but it's not all hunky-dory just yet.
Colby's girl: Aw, thank you! It's lovely to get a comment from you. I didn't realize how much I missed writing and the interactions with readers.
WastedJamie: How sweet! Thank you! So happy you love Teenchesters.
sylvia37: Thank you! You're the best. I love resourceful, brave Sam too...and (if I'm honest) also beat-up and endangered Sam.
muffinroo: That's so nice of you! Okay, I literally just wrote basically the same thing you said to the previous commenter. LOL. I shouldn't be surprised – we share the same taste in story types!
Akren483: How kind! I'm so very flattered. I have so much respect for visual artists, partly because that is definitely NOT where my talents or abilities lie. I will certainly save your contact info, though at the moment, I only put out stories for free, so I won't be spending money for an illustrator. But again, I truly appreciate the offer and am going to check out your work!
Atlasina7: Thank you, dear! It's kind of overwhelming (and wonderful!) to hear from some of my favorite readers and know my stories were missed. It's still a busy season in my life, but I promise I haven't given up writing about the Winchesters. Thanks for the kudos, too. Sam won't be in jeopardy too long, since the whole story isn't very long, but I'll do better torturing him next time! LOL.