spn fic: "sleep, shadows, secrets" (Gen)
May. 7th, 2014 05:46 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
fannishlisstitle: sleep, shadows, secrets
author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
fannishliss
recipient:safiyabat
word-count: 2700 words
characters: Sam and Dean
genre: Gen
warnings: none; set mid-s9
summary: Dean has fallen under a powerful spell, and it's up to Sam to save him.
For anti-Christmas 2014 at sammessiah.livejournal.com. Forsafiyabat, who wanted Sam being Strong, defending someone, and dealing with angels of some kind. I hope you will like how I used your prompts.
==========
Sam crept silently into the dilapidated church, letting his eyes adjust to the moonlight that filtered in through the dusty windows.
He struggled not to retch as the horrible smell of human rot filled his nostrils. Dark mounds of bodies were strewn across the floor of the church where the pews had been, and every one of them had one or both hands extended towards the front of the church, as though they were reaching toward where the altar had been for comfort or in supplication. Perhaps their faces had been peaceful, relaxed, composed in death — but all were contorted by the rictus of decomposition, flesh falling away to expose nasty, toothy leers. All but one — Dean was lying amongst the bodies, barely breathing, his left arm reaching, a slight smile on his face.
At least Sam wasn’t too late — yet.
Sam picked his way toward the front of the church, through a grotesque labyrinth of corpses. A golden ceremonial mace hung from a cord on his belt, knocking heavily against his thigh with every step and gleaming dully in the dim light.
At last he reached his brother, and knelt down to take his pulse. Though Dean was still breathing shallowly, his pulse was light and erratic. Sam shook him, hoping against hope that Dean would simply wake up, but Dean merely whimpered, and reached more imploringly toward the front of the church, where a squat shadow perched on a low table.
Sam and Dean had picked up a missing persons case. Over two dozen people had gone missing in the town over the last four years, and yet no one had followed up on it except a few grieving loved ones. As soon as they were gone, it was as though they were forgotten — as though it was too much trouble to follow up on it.
They’d rolled into town two days ago.
“Dude, this place is dead,” Dean said.
“Yeah,” Sam nodded. Shops were boarded up, and those that were still open had little business. Even in the diner where Dean stopped to refuel, the waitresses moved slowly and the customers sat brooding over their coffee. It reminded Sam uncomfortably of the Leviathan’s corn syrup plague.
They spent the morning in the local library, digging up evidence as to how many people had disappeared, and then they split up in the afternoon, interviewing people who’d been close to the missing. Sam spoke with five different men and women who had lost someone. One woman had sat in her armchair, barely moving as she stared at a picture of her husband.
“Did you try to find him?” Sam asked.
Cynthia Hornbake was a sweet looking woman in her early fifties. Her clothes were stylish, but a few years old — almost as though she’d stopped caring about fashion. She wore no makeup and little jewelry, and her hair hung straight down from a central part. She gave a deep sigh, staring at the picture in her hand. “I just didn’t know where to start. It was so overwhelming. One day we were happy and everything was fine. Then, he was gone.”
“Just like that?” Sam asked.
“No,” she admitted, frowning. “He seemed… preoccupied. Tired. Then he just didn’t come home. I waited, and then after a while I called the police, but they never found anything.”
Sam was chilled by Cynthia’s strange monotone.
“How long did you wait?”
“A day,” she murmured. “Or two. You know. It takes a while before you’re considered missing.”
“Weren’t you worried?”
“Yes,” she said calmly. “It was so unlike him. Hank was always conscientious. He didn’t do things spur of the moment. He always called if he was running late or anything.”
“But he didn’t call this time?” Sam asked.
“He’d forgotten his phone,” she said sadly.
Sam got a similar vibe from all the survivors: their lives had ground to a halt when their loved ones had gone missing. None of them had taken any concrete steps — even something as simple as hiring a private detective — except for the two youngest, who had tried to spread the word about their missing friends by posting about them on the internet.
In the motel that evening, Sam stayed up late comparing notes. Dean went to bed early and was snoring by ten o’clock. Sam thought nothing of it until the next morning, when he had to spend ten minutes shaking Dean awake.
“I’m up! I’m up! Dammit, Sammy!” Dean grunted into his pillow, ass in the air, and dead to the world. Sam literally had to drag him out of bed and into the Impala. He put three cups of high-test diner coffee into Dean until finally his brother’s eyes were wedged open.
“Dean, you’re no good like this. What is up with you?” Sam said.
“Nothing,” Dean drawled, slouched against the back of the booth.
Sam ate a good breakfast of oatmeal and fruit, while Dean listlessly picked at his sausage and eggs. It was unlike Dean, and Sam was beginning to worry.
“Dean, there’s something wrong with you,” Sam said.
“News flash, Sammy,” Dean mumbled. “Nope. Slow day. No news here.”
By the time Sam got Dean back to the Impala, he was already half asleep again.
Sleepiness seemed to be a key symptom of whatever had a hold of these people. Sam googled deadly sleep, sleep monster, got sidetracked by Djinn, remembered that kid with the African dream root, ruled both of those out, and finally arrived at Bushyasta, the Zoroastrian arch-demon of sloth.
“Bushyasta,” Dean mumbled. “Booyah. Boosh yah. Stuh.”
That was all Sam could get out of him, so he just let him lie there, hopefully sleeping it off, whatever it was. Sam researched the case as best he could, but his eyes were closing on him. There was nothing more he could do, especially until he’d had a good night’s sleep.
He cast a fond eye over Dean’s sleeping form before he turned in. Dean looked so peaceful when he was asleep, face down like a little kid. Sleep relaxed his face and made him look so much younger, like in the old day, when they’d still had a shitty life as little tin soldiers pushed around by their dad, but at least in those days, neither had been to Hell or triggered the Apocalypse.
Before Sam turned out the light, he smiled a little and whispered to Dean, “sweet dreams,” knowing Dean would never hear him.
When he woke up, Dean was gone.
Frantic, he prayed to Castiel, but Castiel didn’t come. Sam could only hope everything was all right with the Angel, but he couldn’t stop from praying fervently that Cas would arrive.
What he didn’t expect was a shimmering light, the sound of bells, and a sweet smell of frankincense.
“Greetings, Sam Winchester,” said a sweet, musical voice. “Peace be with you.”
“Who — who are you?” Sam said. The being seemed good, but Sam didn’t trust appearances. In his world, most Angels of the Lord were dicks, and most of the gods were crazy, so whatever this thing was, no matter how beautiful and full of light it seemed, Sam had to be suspicious.
“My name does not matter. What matters is that you oppose the Daeva Bushyasta, and I am a peri — an angel — sent to help you.”
“Daeva,” Sam said. “I’ve gone up against daeva before — but controlled by a demon.” Their battles with Meg seemed so long ago now, practically a different lifetime.
The peri laughed in bell-like tones, shaking her long, beautiful hair. What looked like diaphanous wings of pure light slowly fanned behind her.
“Those were mere shadow demons. This is an arch demon of the ranks of Angra Mainyu. You will need my help to defeat her.”
“I have a Kurdish knife that kills demons,” Sam offered.
“That is a good knife,” the angelic being answered, “but you will need the Mace of Mithra.”
“Dean is gone!” Sam hissed. “I don’t have time to run around looking for godly weapons.”
The peri laughed again. “Sam Winchester,” she said, shaking her head, and her long hair gleamed like a rainbow. “After all this time, and you still will not embrace your powers.”
“Powers?” Sam said. “I don’t have any powers.” An icy trail of dread ran down his spine. He remembered the early days when Azazel had tried to awaken the special powers he’d had because of the taint of demon blood, and he felt with dismay the rush of craving that still stirred within him sometimes when he thought about how it had felt to wield those unholy powers so effectively against his demon enemies.
“No,” Sam said. “I don’t do that any more. I don’t drink demon blood,” he choked. “I swore I’d never do that again.”
In Sam’s head he could see Dean’s sad, accusing eyes, and he could hear Dean saying, “I know you wouldn’t save me, I get it, Sam.”
But to be true to Dean, to be the brother Dean really deserved, Sam couldn’t take up the blood again. He couldn’t. There had to be another way.
“You don’t need demon blood, Sam Winchester,” the peri said, a slight frown dimming its sunny visage. “The power is inside you.”
“You saying I don’t need the feather to fly?” Sam asked, with a harsh laugh.
“Your demon lover, in that, did not deceive you. You are a very special human, Sam Winchester, the product of thousands of years of selective mating, down the bloodlines.”
“Just so I’d be fit to be Lucifer’s vessel, yes, I know,” Sam said bitterly.
“No,” the peri said. “You are no mere vessel. Your brother was meant to be Michael’s Sword — and you two are a powerful being in your own right.”
“Not just a vessel?” Sam asked. He’d spent so long with Lucifer inside him, tormenting him. Once he’d gotten free of of the devil, the idea of poking around inside his own head to see what crazy shit he could stir up in there didn’t really hold much appeal.
“If you need the mace of Mithra, call it,” the peri said.
“What?” Sam asked.
“Call it. Call the mace of Mithra. Will it to yourself with the power of your righteousness.”
“Dean’s the one who’s supposed to be righteous,” Sam grumbled.
“You are brothers, are you not?” the angelic being smiled.
“Maybe we’re just opposites,” Sam argued, feeling contrary.
“You are Hunters and Men of Letters, Campbells and Winchesters. You come from a long line of sages and fighters. Your mother and father and grandparents and forebears dreamed of the day you’ve brought to fruition, when one of their line would be strong enough to cast down the Archangels themselves. You, Sam, are the culmination of a thousand prophecies, not just the ones your ‘Angels of the Lord’ tried to use against you.”
Sam gaped at her. The eerie, fairy-like creature gazed back at Sam with dark eyes full of compassion. In all the years since they’d been caught up in Azazel’s machinations, Sam had somehow lost sight of their victories. He could remember a day, not too long ago, when he’d stood in front of Dean and asked what good it did for him to even be alive.
“May I?” she asked, holding up a slim, long-fingered hand.
Sam recoiled, but then reconsidered. Why the hell not? What more could he possibly lose?
The peri gently touched Sam’s forehead. He was vaguely surprised that nothing terrible happened. Instead, memories began to scroll past him, faster and faster.
Sam watched as he and Dean killed monsters and saved people. Year after year, they had selflessly devoted themselves to making the world a less ravenous place. Sam realized at last that he and Dean had done immeasurable good. Despite the imbalances they must’ve wrought in the natural order, they’d derailed the Apocalypse that Angels had planned for millennia. They’d defeated Eve and Lilith and Leviathans, syndicates of Angels, and demons, and all kinds of monsters. The world was a better place because Sam and Dean were in it.
The peri’s hand floated away, and she reassured him with the kindness of her smile that all the things Sam had finally realized were true.
“So,” Sam said, clearing his throat, and maybe wiping his eyes a little. “I just call the mace?”
“Yes,” the peri smiled.
Sam closed his eyes. For the first time in what felt like forever, the peri’s touch had calmed Sam’s mind. He thought of the mace of Mithra, and instantly, a clear picture formed in his head of the implement he needed.
“You are easy to help,” she said. “Now call.”
Sam let out a breath, and thought, here goes nothing, and called.
A large, golden mace dropped onto the floor in front of Sam with a heavy thunk.
“Wow,” Sam said, huffing a laugh in shock.
“Now, Sam, go!” the peri urged. “You have work to do.”
He could sense her presence in the back of his mind, encouraging him. She led Sam directly to a dilapidated old chapel a short ways out of town. The old dirt road was choked with growth, and several trees had fallen across it, so Sam had to park the Impala and walk to the chapel on foot.
He entered the church and crept forward toward the altar. Dean lay deeply asleep, ensnared in Bushyasta’s curse.
Where the altar should have been was an old, old statue. It was dirty and covered with cobwebs and had been set up on a rickety little table. It seemed to have been made of green stone, vaguely in the shape of a woman with weirdly long hands.
As Sam untied the mace and got a good grip on it, the nasty old statue began to rock. Sam began to doubt himself. This would never work. What was the point of trying?
The statue began to glow brightly. It was a yellowish, greenish light, but it felt warm and soothing to Sam. The light spilled onto Dean too. The vague smile on Dean’s face should have been a comfort to Sam, shouldn’t it? The way Dean’s hand yearned toward the makeshift altar?
No!
With the last bit of his dwindling will, Sam raised his arm, and brought the mace down on the statue’s head with a mighty crash.
The mace, of pure soft gold, struck the hard, jadeite statue — and the statue shattered into a thousand pieces, splitting the silence of the room with a long, echoing shriek of dismay.
The stifled, poisonous air of the old church began to dissipate right away. Dean stirred, and Sam watched in awe as the corpses around him crumbled into dust.
“Sammy,” Dean ground out. No matter how dangerous a situation, how close to death Dean had come, Sam’s own name was always on his brother’s lips.
“I’m here, Dean,” Sam said, kneeling down beside Dean and helping his brother to his feet.
Dean rubbed at his eyes. “Where the hell are we? What is this place? Dude, it reeks!”
Sam looked around — the statue had shattered, the corpses had all crumbled, and the mace had vanished from Sam’s hand as soon as he’d turned his attention to Dean. Bushyasta’s evil had been averted.
Sam shook his head and led Dean out into the moonlight, the peri’s delight in the defeat of her adversary a distant ringing in the back of his mind.
In the morning, the diner around them was newly alive, buzzing with conversation. Even better, Dean’s appetite was back. Sam had never been so happy to see Dean shovel greasy food into his face.
“So, you’re telling me, this was all archaeology gone wrong?” Dean mumbled around a big bite of sausage.
“Contraband, Dean,” Sam said. “Illegal smuggling of exported antiquities is a big problem everywhere.”
“And it turned half this place into Rip Van Winkles that never woke up.”
“Looks like.”
“You figured it out all on your own? Good on you, Sammy,” Dean said, swigging his coffee.
Dean was well-rested for the first time in what seemed like forever; going up against a monster had had a silver lining.
Maybe the peri would return to help them again, even when the monster he was fighting wasn’t a daeva, then again maybe she wouldn’t. Maybe Sam had a new hold on his long-lost powers, and then again, maybe he didn’t.
It wasn’t that Sam particularly enjoyed keeping secrets. But he was a Campbell and a Winchester, so if he kept a few secrets, who could really blame him.
author:
fannishlissrecipient:
safiyabatword-count: 2700 words
characters: Sam and Dean
genre: Gen
warnings: none; set mid-s9
summary: Dean has fallen under a powerful spell, and it's up to Sam to save him.
For anti-Christmas 2014 at sammessiah.livejournal.com. For
safiyabat, who wanted Sam being Strong, defending someone, and dealing with angels of some kind. I hope you will like how I used your prompts.==========
Sam crept silently into the dilapidated church, letting his eyes adjust to the moonlight that filtered in through the dusty windows.
He struggled not to retch as the horrible smell of human rot filled his nostrils. Dark mounds of bodies were strewn across the floor of the church where the pews had been, and every one of them had one or both hands extended towards the front of the church, as though they were reaching toward where the altar had been for comfort or in supplication. Perhaps their faces had been peaceful, relaxed, composed in death — but all were contorted by the rictus of decomposition, flesh falling away to expose nasty, toothy leers. All but one — Dean was lying amongst the bodies, barely breathing, his left arm reaching, a slight smile on his face.
At least Sam wasn’t too late — yet.
Sam picked his way toward the front of the church, through a grotesque labyrinth of corpses. A golden ceremonial mace hung from a cord on his belt, knocking heavily against his thigh with every step and gleaming dully in the dim light.
At last he reached his brother, and knelt down to take his pulse. Though Dean was still breathing shallowly, his pulse was light and erratic. Sam shook him, hoping against hope that Dean would simply wake up, but Dean merely whimpered, and reached more imploringly toward the front of the church, where a squat shadow perched on a low table.
Sam and Dean had picked up a missing persons case. Over two dozen people had gone missing in the town over the last four years, and yet no one had followed up on it except a few grieving loved ones. As soon as they were gone, it was as though they were forgotten — as though it was too much trouble to follow up on it.
They’d rolled into town two days ago.
“Dude, this place is dead,” Dean said.
“Yeah,” Sam nodded. Shops were boarded up, and those that were still open had little business. Even in the diner where Dean stopped to refuel, the waitresses moved slowly and the customers sat brooding over their coffee. It reminded Sam uncomfortably of the Leviathan’s corn syrup plague.
They spent the morning in the local library, digging up evidence as to how many people had disappeared, and then they split up in the afternoon, interviewing people who’d been close to the missing. Sam spoke with five different men and women who had lost someone. One woman had sat in her armchair, barely moving as she stared at a picture of her husband.
“Did you try to find him?” Sam asked.
Cynthia Hornbake was a sweet looking woman in her early fifties. Her clothes were stylish, but a few years old — almost as though she’d stopped caring about fashion. She wore no makeup and little jewelry, and her hair hung straight down from a central part. She gave a deep sigh, staring at the picture in her hand. “I just didn’t know where to start. It was so overwhelming. One day we were happy and everything was fine. Then, he was gone.”
“Just like that?” Sam asked.
“No,” she admitted, frowning. “He seemed… preoccupied. Tired. Then he just didn’t come home. I waited, and then after a while I called the police, but they never found anything.”
Sam was chilled by Cynthia’s strange monotone.
“How long did you wait?”
“A day,” she murmured. “Or two. You know. It takes a while before you’re considered missing.”
“Weren’t you worried?”
“Yes,” she said calmly. “It was so unlike him. Hank was always conscientious. He didn’t do things spur of the moment. He always called if he was running late or anything.”
“But he didn’t call this time?” Sam asked.
“He’d forgotten his phone,” she said sadly.
Sam got a similar vibe from all the survivors: their lives had ground to a halt when their loved ones had gone missing. None of them had taken any concrete steps — even something as simple as hiring a private detective — except for the two youngest, who had tried to spread the word about their missing friends by posting about them on the internet.
In the motel that evening, Sam stayed up late comparing notes. Dean went to bed early and was snoring by ten o’clock. Sam thought nothing of it until the next morning, when he had to spend ten minutes shaking Dean awake.
“I’m up! I’m up! Dammit, Sammy!” Dean grunted into his pillow, ass in the air, and dead to the world. Sam literally had to drag him out of bed and into the Impala. He put three cups of high-test diner coffee into Dean until finally his brother’s eyes were wedged open.
“Dean, you’re no good like this. What is up with you?” Sam said.
“Nothing,” Dean drawled, slouched against the back of the booth.
Sam ate a good breakfast of oatmeal and fruit, while Dean listlessly picked at his sausage and eggs. It was unlike Dean, and Sam was beginning to worry.
“Dean, there’s something wrong with you,” Sam said.
“News flash, Sammy,” Dean mumbled. “Nope. Slow day. No news here.”
By the time Sam got Dean back to the Impala, he was already half asleep again.
Sleepiness seemed to be a key symptom of whatever had a hold of these people. Sam googled deadly sleep, sleep monster, got sidetracked by Djinn, remembered that kid with the African dream root, ruled both of those out, and finally arrived at Bushyasta, the Zoroastrian arch-demon of sloth.
“Bushyasta,” Dean mumbled. “Booyah. Boosh yah. Stuh.”
That was all Sam could get out of him, so he just let him lie there, hopefully sleeping it off, whatever it was. Sam researched the case as best he could, but his eyes were closing on him. There was nothing more he could do, especially until he’d had a good night’s sleep.
He cast a fond eye over Dean’s sleeping form before he turned in. Dean looked so peaceful when he was asleep, face down like a little kid. Sleep relaxed his face and made him look so much younger, like in the old day, when they’d still had a shitty life as little tin soldiers pushed around by their dad, but at least in those days, neither had been to Hell or triggered the Apocalypse.
Before Sam turned out the light, he smiled a little and whispered to Dean, “sweet dreams,” knowing Dean would never hear him.
When he woke up, Dean was gone.
Frantic, he prayed to Castiel, but Castiel didn’t come. Sam could only hope everything was all right with the Angel, but he couldn’t stop from praying fervently that Cas would arrive.
What he didn’t expect was a shimmering light, the sound of bells, and a sweet smell of frankincense.
“Greetings, Sam Winchester,” said a sweet, musical voice. “Peace be with you.”
“Who — who are you?” Sam said. The being seemed good, but Sam didn’t trust appearances. In his world, most Angels of the Lord were dicks, and most of the gods were crazy, so whatever this thing was, no matter how beautiful and full of light it seemed, Sam had to be suspicious.
“My name does not matter. What matters is that you oppose the Daeva Bushyasta, and I am a peri — an angel — sent to help you.”
“Daeva,” Sam said. “I’ve gone up against daeva before — but controlled by a demon.” Their battles with Meg seemed so long ago now, practically a different lifetime.
The peri laughed in bell-like tones, shaking her long, beautiful hair. What looked like diaphanous wings of pure light slowly fanned behind her.
“Those were mere shadow demons. This is an arch demon of the ranks of Angra Mainyu. You will need my help to defeat her.”
“I have a Kurdish knife that kills demons,” Sam offered.
“That is a good knife,” the angelic being answered, “but you will need the Mace of Mithra.”
“Dean is gone!” Sam hissed. “I don’t have time to run around looking for godly weapons.”
The peri laughed again. “Sam Winchester,” she said, shaking her head, and her long hair gleamed like a rainbow. “After all this time, and you still will not embrace your powers.”
“Powers?” Sam said. “I don’t have any powers.” An icy trail of dread ran down his spine. He remembered the early days when Azazel had tried to awaken the special powers he’d had because of the taint of demon blood, and he felt with dismay the rush of craving that still stirred within him sometimes when he thought about how it had felt to wield those unholy powers so effectively against his demon enemies.
“No,” Sam said. “I don’t do that any more. I don’t drink demon blood,” he choked. “I swore I’d never do that again.”
In Sam’s head he could see Dean’s sad, accusing eyes, and he could hear Dean saying, “I know you wouldn’t save me, I get it, Sam.”
But to be true to Dean, to be the brother Dean really deserved, Sam couldn’t take up the blood again. He couldn’t. There had to be another way.
“You don’t need demon blood, Sam Winchester,” the peri said, a slight frown dimming its sunny visage. “The power is inside you.”
“You saying I don’t need the feather to fly?” Sam asked, with a harsh laugh.
“Your demon lover, in that, did not deceive you. You are a very special human, Sam Winchester, the product of thousands of years of selective mating, down the bloodlines.”
“Just so I’d be fit to be Lucifer’s vessel, yes, I know,” Sam said bitterly.
“No,” the peri said. “You are no mere vessel. Your brother was meant to be Michael’s Sword — and you two are a powerful being in your own right.”
“Not just a vessel?” Sam asked. He’d spent so long with Lucifer inside him, tormenting him. Once he’d gotten free of of the devil, the idea of poking around inside his own head to see what crazy shit he could stir up in there didn’t really hold much appeal.
“If you need the mace of Mithra, call it,” the peri said.
“What?” Sam asked.
“Call it. Call the mace of Mithra. Will it to yourself with the power of your righteousness.”
“Dean’s the one who’s supposed to be righteous,” Sam grumbled.
“You are brothers, are you not?” the angelic being smiled.
“Maybe we’re just opposites,” Sam argued, feeling contrary.
“You are Hunters and Men of Letters, Campbells and Winchesters. You come from a long line of sages and fighters. Your mother and father and grandparents and forebears dreamed of the day you’ve brought to fruition, when one of their line would be strong enough to cast down the Archangels themselves. You, Sam, are the culmination of a thousand prophecies, not just the ones your ‘Angels of the Lord’ tried to use against you.”
Sam gaped at her. The eerie, fairy-like creature gazed back at Sam with dark eyes full of compassion. In all the years since they’d been caught up in Azazel’s machinations, Sam had somehow lost sight of their victories. He could remember a day, not too long ago, when he’d stood in front of Dean and asked what good it did for him to even be alive.
“May I?” she asked, holding up a slim, long-fingered hand.
Sam recoiled, but then reconsidered. Why the hell not? What more could he possibly lose?
The peri gently touched Sam’s forehead. He was vaguely surprised that nothing terrible happened. Instead, memories began to scroll past him, faster and faster.
Sam watched as he and Dean killed monsters and saved people. Year after year, they had selflessly devoted themselves to making the world a less ravenous place. Sam realized at last that he and Dean had done immeasurable good. Despite the imbalances they must’ve wrought in the natural order, they’d derailed the Apocalypse that Angels had planned for millennia. They’d defeated Eve and Lilith and Leviathans, syndicates of Angels, and demons, and all kinds of monsters. The world was a better place because Sam and Dean were in it.
The peri’s hand floated away, and she reassured him with the kindness of her smile that all the things Sam had finally realized were true.
“So,” Sam said, clearing his throat, and maybe wiping his eyes a little. “I just call the mace?”
“Yes,” the peri smiled.
Sam closed his eyes. For the first time in what felt like forever, the peri’s touch had calmed Sam’s mind. He thought of the mace of Mithra, and instantly, a clear picture formed in his head of the implement he needed.
“You are easy to help,” she said. “Now call.”
Sam let out a breath, and thought, here goes nothing, and called.
A large, golden mace dropped onto the floor in front of Sam with a heavy thunk.
“Wow,” Sam said, huffing a laugh in shock.
“Now, Sam, go!” the peri urged. “You have work to do.”
He could sense her presence in the back of his mind, encouraging him. She led Sam directly to a dilapidated old chapel a short ways out of town. The old dirt road was choked with growth, and several trees had fallen across it, so Sam had to park the Impala and walk to the chapel on foot.
He entered the church and crept forward toward the altar. Dean lay deeply asleep, ensnared in Bushyasta’s curse.
Where the altar should have been was an old, old statue. It was dirty and covered with cobwebs and had been set up on a rickety little table. It seemed to have been made of green stone, vaguely in the shape of a woman with weirdly long hands.
As Sam untied the mace and got a good grip on it, the nasty old statue began to rock. Sam began to doubt himself. This would never work. What was the point of trying?
The statue began to glow brightly. It was a yellowish, greenish light, but it felt warm and soothing to Sam. The light spilled onto Dean too. The vague smile on Dean’s face should have been a comfort to Sam, shouldn’t it? The way Dean’s hand yearned toward the makeshift altar?
No!
With the last bit of his dwindling will, Sam raised his arm, and brought the mace down on the statue’s head with a mighty crash.
The mace, of pure soft gold, struck the hard, jadeite statue — and the statue shattered into a thousand pieces, splitting the silence of the room with a long, echoing shriek of dismay.
The stifled, poisonous air of the old church began to dissipate right away. Dean stirred, and Sam watched in awe as the corpses around him crumbled into dust.
“Sammy,” Dean ground out. No matter how dangerous a situation, how close to death Dean had come, Sam’s own name was always on his brother’s lips.
“I’m here, Dean,” Sam said, kneeling down beside Dean and helping his brother to his feet.
Dean rubbed at his eyes. “Where the hell are we? What is this place? Dude, it reeks!”
Sam looked around — the statue had shattered, the corpses had all crumbled, and the mace had vanished from Sam’s hand as soon as he’d turned his attention to Dean. Bushyasta’s evil had been averted.
Sam shook his head and led Dean out into the moonlight, the peri’s delight in the defeat of her adversary a distant ringing in the back of his mind.
In the morning, the diner around them was newly alive, buzzing with conversation. Even better, Dean’s appetite was back. Sam had never been so happy to see Dean shovel greasy food into his face.
“So, you’re telling me, this was all archaeology gone wrong?” Dean mumbled around a big bite of sausage.
“Contraband, Dean,” Sam said. “Illegal smuggling of exported antiquities is a big problem everywhere.”
“And it turned half this place into Rip Van Winkles that never woke up.”
“Looks like.”
“You figured it out all on your own? Good on you, Sammy,” Dean said, swigging his coffee.
Dean was well-rested for the first time in what seemed like forever; going up against a monster had had a silver lining.
Maybe the peri would return to help them again, even when the monster he was fighting wasn’t a daeva, then again maybe she wouldn’t. Maybe Sam had a new hold on his long-lost powers, and then again, maybe he didn’t.
It wasn’t that Sam particularly enjoyed keeping secrets. But he was a Campbell and a Winchester, so if he kept a few secrets, who could really blame him.
