taking alternate lateral knowledge into next generation!”
Sam couldn’t agree more.
It was a maddening sort of day. They’d figured out the essence of what was going to go down on Friday; they’d figured out who the main players would be. All they could really do at this point was gather any additional information they could get through observation. This involved tailing the Colemans again. They considered switching marks to minimise the chances of their being noticed, but Sam thought it would be better to keep it the same as yesterday, in case any patterns came up in places or people; he figured Dean had had the same idea, because they came to a silent agreement via hand gestures and eyebrows in a matter of moments.
Again, they met up at noon. Sam had witnessed three interactions that triggered his hunter instincts; Dean had apparently sighted four potential members of the coven they were now fully convinced did indeed exist. Not for the first time, Sam was extremely grateful that he and his brother had learned to communicate so well without words.
They gave it up for the day, ordered pizza online again, and watched bad TV all afternoon. Castiel popped back in around sunset.
“This opal doorway archly yawns;
inside, splendour.
Diffidence in fecundity follows ingracious courtesy under linden trees,”
he announced plaintively.
“Finding us crowned king
means you
leave it for elephants,”
muttered Dean.
Sam desperately wished for Thursday to come. Surely nothing could be more tedious than this.
*
In a way, Thursday was a reprieve. It was not, however, precisely the reprieve for which Sam had been hoping.
“Slarn crannelent,” Dean greeted him, in resigned tones, when he awoke.
So pretty much it was a really good thing that they didn’t have anything pressing to accomplish today.
Aside from a quick swing past Emily’s to verify that she was still a free woman, they spent the majority of the day going stir-crazy in the motel room. Amazingly, Castiel stuck around all day; Sam gathered that his impaired speech was impeding his search, though he couldn’t fathom how that could be the case. However it worked, Castiel was there, and Sam found he enjoyed the angel’s company. It was somehow comforting to be reminded that even a higher order of being could be afflicted in the same manner that he and Dean could. It was also hilarious when he couldn’t hold himself back from commentary because Dean decided to bait him by turning on “Touched By An Angel.”
“Vithilten, borivus pomeril!” he declared urgently, when one of the angels had made an especially inaccurate statement. “Thurvid casteron, fainch, dan quoxit lermenath!”
It was difficult not to laugh out loud, but they managed. Mostly.
Sam found an Italian delivery place that took online orders, so they ended up with spaghetti and breadsticks and ceasar salad, and a room that reeked of garlic. Partway through the afternoon, Dean discovered a Star Wars marathon that had been running all day. They’d only missed the first three episodes, which neither Sam nor Dean acknowledged as canonical Star Wars anyway. Dean nudged Castiel when he changed the channel just in time to see the Tantive IV fleeing across the dark of space, followed closely by the inexorable bulk of the Imperial Star Destroyer.
“Dolsh breskna,” he whispered gleefully. Castiel paid careful attention to everything that followed.
POETIC JUSTICE [11/16]; Sam, Dean, Castiel; PG for language; Warning: Poetry.chibifriezaApril 6 2010, 19:09:36 UTC
*
The first of May dawned behind cloud cover, an inauspicious portent if ever Sam had seen one. However, it was apparently supposed to clear up around noon, which meant that any rituals being planned for the evening wouldn’t have to relocate. That would have been a complication they could definitely do without. Meanwhile, they had a pretty good idea of the location of the sacrifices from tailing the Colemans, so that was under control.
There was still Emily to consider. Whatever she thought she was capable of, there was a good chance it wasn’t going to be enough to save her.
With these cheerful thoughts, Sam rolled onto his back. Dean sat up in the next bed, snuffling a little.
“Similar to,” said Sam, “a restless spirit I today am waiting(not-patiently as one dead and fixated)for an event terrible and momentous,like dying inevitable.”
Dean snorted.
“you (always and again) are(even now) unnecessarily verbose
but i agree”
After they were dressed, it was time to make plans. They probably both had a good idea of what needed to happen, but they had to make sure they weren’t on different pages. Really, with this particular volume, Sam thought before launching into a preliminary sketch, you never knew.
“If supposing first lacking pointedly unintelligence the cruel and human-killing miscreants(a match or for-Emily-more to capture) to be,not
to be stupid:closely to follow that singular furrow of not-earth lain(deliberately)fallow and with our hands (bloodied as theirs in spite of fewer years held in them)keep one flower clean.”
Dean acknowledged that any plan had to at least start there.
“The fate of our librarian depends on whether,moving in, the kidnappers(killers,even)
are such as you and I can take (overpowered back to back yes, but dodging spells, we suck
at)and therein lies the rub: the cultists sent make the grab will curse before they break a rib.
and(seeing as we’ve had enough of curses)we need more than stiff- ened upper lips for this riffraff.”
Personal wards only went so far, and if they were up against a powerful coven, they were definitely going to need something more to ensure their own safety, so that they could actually do some good protecting Emily.
In a moment of serendipitous timing, Castiel arrived. Dean turned to him as one inspired.
“On my lips straining urgently the short-and-sweet question of this (entangled with intrigue)moment is thus:can you take down a coven at need?”
“GLADLY WILL I DO,” intoned Castiel, “th) isa tl:e ast I ca
POETIC JUSTICE [12/16]; Sam, Dean, Castiel; PG for language; Warning: Poetry.chibifriezaApril 6 2010, 19:10:43 UTC
*
Typically the victims disappeared in the afternoon of the day on which they were murdered; that gave them the morning to prepare. The three of them went first to the library, just for peace of mind. Emily gave them a wave and a cheerful grin from the other end of a long aisle; they didn’t bother trying to talk to her. Retreating back outside, they crossed the street to a small playground, currently deserted. Castiel perched on top of the merry-go-round; Dean and Sam each took a swing.
“Aside leaving historical of badlywrong gone operations proof(since in existence are equal numbers of otherwise impossible likewise) when Independently acting,”
began Sam,
“tasks multiple seemingly and discrete potential there is for:to take custody discreetly of she who is to die, and also to effect completely and forever(and a day my comrades,and always)the cessation of ritual killings by those who plan to slay.
How(then)is this(now)to be accomplished?”
“I,” said Castiel, “having the godgiven and not(wholly) diminished capacity to quell evil,will undertake to render neutralandharmless our antagonists.”
“if hoping to,” pointed out Dean, we were ever avert the capture of Emily(to circumnavigate complication)plain-seemingly clear the solution stands:that we brothers should the lady follow and leave to the angel those who court darkness, communicating as may arise the need.Then
encroaching on their subtlety from either end we may subdue the middle and(preventing moreover the ritual at all)accomplish peace.”
It seemed like the best option: split up, with Castiel, who was unquestionably better suited to following multiple targets anyway, keeping track of the coven and hopefully averting the kidnapping attempt, while Sam and Dean attached themselves to Emily after the manner of bodyguards as a second line of defense. Hopefully, they could make sure the coven never got near Emily, that Emily never got near the ritual, and the sacrifice never happened. Castiel could put the fear of God in the Colemans and their groupies, break up the party, and ensure the safety of virgins in the area henceforth.
It was really hard to make cohesive watertight plans when you couldn’t speak properly, okay, and Sam thought they were doing really well. Anyway, it was going to work. He was sure of it. That was even discounting whatever Emily had up her sleeve, so when you added that in, they were golden. It was still as nervewracking as any other hunt, of course. Because if they failed, someone was going to die. And people were going to keep dying. And it was very important that they succeed.
In other words, a fairly standard day’s work. Sam took the anticipatory adrenaline rush and made it work for him, as he’d been doing for most of his life.
He got up off the swing.
“First,” he said, “and most importantly I think that in order lunch probably is(since Dean, I hear the melody of your insides)and then
let’s get to it.”
Sam faked laryngitis this time, and they ate standing up in a parking lot under a rapidly clearing sky.
POETIC JUSTICE [13/16]; Sam, Dean, Castiel; PG for language; Warning: Poetry.chibifriezaApril 6 2010, 19:12:03 UTC
*
Emily took their company with good grace. That is to say, she laughed in their faces first, and then ignored them. Sam was just glad she hadn’t insisted they leave her alone. They shadowed her through the rest of her work day, hovering near the desk while she did paperwork, covering both ends of the aisle when she was shelving, and generally not letting her out of their sight. None of the known initiates showed up, but they couldn’t let their guard down; they didn’t know how many others there might be.
It wasn’t until she finished for the day and was on her way out of the library that everything started to fall apart.
Dean’s phone rang on the way down the stairs. He picked up the call without speaking and listened for a moment. His face grew suddenly tight.
“where
are you and are you
hurt?”
he demanded. Sam felt a jolt. Cas was in trouble? This wasn’t good at all. If they knew how to get the drop on an angel, they knew far more than any human should.
Dean ended the call.
“they lured him and trapped him
in holy oil burning (his power scorning),”
he announced grimly,
“and who knows how they knew But I will do what I can do.
take care of Emily (they will be coming) we will be coming back.”
He took off running, in the direction of where he’d parked earlier, leaving Sam reeling on the steps.
For a few seconds, all he could do was watch his brother’s retreating back, his mind stuck in a loop of trapped him and they will be coming. Then he shook himself out of it - this was not the time to lose focus, dammit - and turned to Emily. She looked surprised, a little confused, but that was all. She had no idea.
There was no way he could explain, not today, not now. They needed to get off the street. He touched her arm to get her attention, then mimed driving a car.
“What? Oh. Yeah, my car’s around the corner. I suppose you’re coming with.”
Sam nodded firmly. Now more than ever, he was not leaving her alone.
She drove a yellow hatchback Honda civic, which was unfortunate. Sam folded himself awkwardly into the passenger side, shifted the seat back as far as it would go, and resigned himself to an uncomfortable ride. He was stiff from agitation and the cramped quarters by the time they got to her house, and when she pulled up in front of the small grey bungalow with its girdle of lavish shrubbery, he climbed out with a feeling of intense relief.
The yard looked clear, but he kept up a scan as he followed her to her door. When she put her key in the lock and turned it, Sam held up his hand and gestured for her to let him go in first. She rolled her eyes.
“Fine, whatever floats your boat.” She pushed the door open and made a sweeping gesture. “Welcome to my domain.”
Sam hitched the gun out of his waistband and shouldered the door open carefully. The front hall was clear; he edged around the doorway to the front room, and then a jagged darkness crashed down through him like a boulder before he even had time to register the sensation, and dragged him under.
POETIC JUSTICE [14/16]; Sam, Dean, Castiel; PG for language; Warning: Poetry.chibifriezaApril 6 2010, 19:13:06 UTC
*
Too much time had passed. He could tell without even opening his eyes. They’d outsmarted him, outmaneuvered him, and now they had Emily and she was going to die.
No. No, he reminded himself savagely, Dean had gone for Castiel, and Emily was no slouch, and maybe she’d make it out alive somehow.
Maybe Sam could still help.
There was a distant sort of ache in his head, but it wasn’t like the pain from a blow. Probably some kind of whammy had put him under, and that was why nothing really hurt. He should really get his eyes open soon.
He gave it a shot.
Oh, hey. There.
He was outdoors, lying on his back on what felt like grass, looking up at a still-light sky - pinkening on one side, like the sun was starting to set, with a few stars poking through the deeper blue off to the left. It wasn’t too late, after all. But he didn’t have much time. He tried to sit up, and succeeded with unexpected ease. There didn’t seem to be any lingering aftereffects of the... well, of whatever it had been. Good.
Sam got to his feet.
He was in someone’s backyard - Emily’s, he amended when he turned around, recognising the style of her house. He checked for his weapons: they’d taken his Taurus, but had missed the knife. All right. The ritual place was in a park, probably twenty minutes away if he ran.
He made it in just over fifteen. He was breathing hard, but not harshly; his passage through the beech copse, too small to be called woods, but big and undergrown enough to hide what happened within its borders, was nearly silent. Within moments, he came to the edge of a small clearing, almost at the very centre. He took a minute to assess the situation; it didn’t look good.
An altar had been set up in the middle, bearing a knife, a cup, a small cauldron, and a number of other things he couldn’t see clearly. Laurie Coleman stood near it, arranging objects with practised deliberation. Eleven robed initiates and Greg were ranged about the clearing, busy with tasks or simply awaiting the start of the ritual. Two of them, off to one side, stood on guard, and it took Sam a moment to realise that the dark shadow under the tree was in fact Emily, huddled at the roots and bound hand and foot. She didn’t move - couldn’t, Sam guessed - but her eyes were wide, darting around the clearing, catching the flare of the torch that Greg now lit. Her face was unbloodied, but bruised, and her clothing was torn. It looked like she’d given them a good run, he thought, but it hadn’t been enough.
He wasn’t sure what he could do for her alone.
For starters, he began working his way along the perimeter of the clearing, edging closer to Emily. Things appeared to be still in the preparatory stages, so he thought he had a little time.
So focused was Sam on the clearing and keeping his movements silent that when someone grabbed his arm, he almost gave away his position by attacking. As he jerked around, though, another hand came up to his collarbone, hushing and reassuring, and he saw Dean’s eyes glint in the torchlight. His brother leaned in and spoke quietly in his ear.
“when distraction there is created angel-wise you and I(swiftly) to untie Emily must make all haste.”
Dean drew back, and Sam nodded understanding. Together, they crept the rest of the way toward Emily, ending up situated behind the tree under which she sat bound. There was nothing they could do now but wait for Castiel to make his move.
POETIC JUSTICE [15/17]; Sam, Dean, Castiel; PG for language; Warning: Poetry.chibifriezaApril 6 2010, 19:14:52 UTC
*
They didn’t have to wait long. As the sky darkened, the robed figures formed a circle and Greg and Laurie raised their clasped hands in preparation. For what, Sam never found out, because in that moment, Castiel appeared in the centre of their circle, right next to the altar, which he toppled with a casual sweep of his arm. The torch flickered wildly and one of the initiates flinched visibly.
“you who this night here for the purpose of bloodshed gather,hear me:thus command I you.the abominations you practice you shall cease;henceforth the blood of innocents you shall spill no more.”
Castiel’s voice carried the gravitas of Heaven’s messenger, rumbling through the clearing and up to the evening sky. The coven stood frozen, shocked and cowed by his unexpected appearance and the command in his tone. Whatever tricks they had used on him before, they had no defense against this. Sam was almost transfixed, himself, but Dean tugged his sleeve, and they moved toward Emily while her guards were focused on Cas.
“Four-and-twenty the lives devoted to your selfish perversions and you shall not deprive another (never again will you cut off another) of her spark,God-created,not yours to measure or to use.”
They reached Emily and went to work on the ropes, Sam at her feet, Dean at her hands. Her eyes flashed with hope when they appeared, but she made no move to give them better access, confirming Sam’s thought that she was somehow immobilised. When the bindings were cut through, Sam picked her up carefully and Dean drew his Colt, covering their escape with the only weapon he had. It was pointless and somewhat futile, since Castiel had the attention of everyone else in the clearing and a gun wasn’t much defense against witches anyway, but it was as instinctive and necessary to Dean as breathing.
As they retreated, they heard Castiel’s voice echoing after them.
“I a Messenger of the living God thee adjure:never to practice thy false crafts more,nor never thy morbid sacrifices to make,nor...”
They passed beyond clear understanding, but the timbre of the angelic proclamation followed them for blocks.
POETIC JUSTICE [16/17]; Sam, Dean, Castiel; PG for language; Warning: Poetry.chibifriezaApril 6 2010, 19:16:17 UTC
*
About halfway back to Emily’s house, the paralysis seemed to lift, and she began to move in Sam’s arms.
“Hey,” she said in a hoarse rasp. She cleared her throat and tried again. “I’m okay, you can put me down now.” Her voice was still rough, but clearing up as she spoke. Reluctantly, Sam lowered her to her feet, holding on long enough for her to get her balance. When she stood by her own power, she looked up at him, then at Dean, and said, “I- Thank you. I can’t- I wasn’t expecting.” She took a deep breath. “Wow, I’m an idiot. Look, you saved my life. I can’t thank you properly for something like that.” She shifted her stance and gestured awkwardly. “If you’re hungry, I can offer you dinner? I started a crock pot this morning, beef stew, it’s probably still fine...”
Sam grinned and jerked a thumb at Dean.
“he, always hungry and never satisfied,probably could actually eat a horse.”
Dean punched him in the shoulder, hard, but he was grinning too, and shrugged, acknowledging the truth of what Sam said.
They walked the rest of the way to Laurie’s house together. Half a block out, Castiel appeared beside them.
“if you harbour still any worries,
do not,for I have the evildoers chastened and they are subdued.”
Emily started violently when he began to speak, but when she registered who it was, she relaxed.
“I should thank you, too,” she said. “I have no idea what you did back there, but that was damn impressive.” Castiel inclined his head. “Do you want to come back to my place for stew?” He hesitated, and she said quickly, “Don’t feel obligated. Just, I wanted to show my appreciation. You know. For shaking up those creeps.” Castiel moved to stand in front of her, touched a hand briefly to her shoulder.
“You are a daughter most precious and beloved;they were criminals against all things good and pure. Your life continuing is thanks enough.”
She turned her head toward Sam in confused awe; when she turned back, Castiel had gone.
The stew was fine, as it turned out, and Dean had three bowls of it and Sam had one, and they slept on her couches because, she awkwardly explained, they didn’t have to but it was just hard to get over having your home invaded, and would they mind?
They didn’t mind at all. Despite the unusual size of the larger couch, Sam woke up with cricks in places he hadn’t known could crick, but he was okay with that. Emily was alive and safe. That made up for a lot.
POETIC JUSTICE [17/18]; Sam, Dean, Castiel; PG for language; Warning: Poetry.chibifriezaApril 6 2010, 19:18:15 UTC
*
There was a smell and a sizzle of bacon frying and the beautiful aroma of coffee when Sam woke up, early sunlight filtering in through the sheer front curtains. He sat up slowly, unfolding himself with care and precision, and finding out exactly how his sleeping accomodation had affected his spine. Glancing over toward the other couch, he discovered that his brother was absent. Then he heard a low feminine laugh from the direction of the kitchen, and sighed, shaking his head. He got up off the couch, popped his back in as many ways as he possibly could, and headed for the kitchen.
Dean sat at the tiny table drinking coffee, his attention focused all on Emily. She was clattering around cheerfully, checking the bacon, making toast, scrambling eggs. When she noticed Sam in the doorway, she tipped her head in the direction of the far counter.
“Coffee machine’s over there. I’ll be done in a minute here.”
Sam poured himself a cup, and went to join Dean at the table. He took a sip of coffee - man, that beat diner coffee any day of the week - elbowed his brother, and raised an eyebrow. Dean shrugged, and returned a hey, what can I say? half-grin.
Emily came over then and started dishing out eggs. Breakfast was mostly silent, and Sam was just as glad; he wasn’t sure he was keen on finding out what the last day of the curse entailed while in the presence of the one who had cast it.
The first to finish eating was Emily, though, and she sat back and eyed them speculatively.
“You know,” she said, “I never did get your names.”
Sam and Dean exchanged a look of dread, mouths full. Sam gave an internal sigh, swallowed, and prepared to take one for the team.
“My name is Sam,” and that wasn’t so bad, but oh, then: “and this, the brother of my soul the name written in the eyes of my heart is Dean.”
That sounded... oh, man, she was going to think... well, talk about your unfortunate side-effects. Sam dropped his face into his hands. Then he felt a heavy pressure on his foot and, unbelievably, Dean jumped in to save him.
“Even though the parrot of our mouths is being forced to squawk unfamiliar architecture, the sky of truth is revealed anyway.
Our mother dropped sparks in an agony of white dress when we were grasshoppers, and since then our father has drowned innumerably and is no more.
We are the only two stars in our sky and the planets are against us.”
Sam hoped she could understand, through the filter of her own curse, what Dean was trying to say: We really are brothers, and we’ve been through a lot together, and we’re all we have left. He looked up cautiously, and was surprised by the stricken compassion in Emily’s eyes.
“I’m so sorry,” she said quietly. “I can’t imagine what it’s been like for you.” There was a somewhat uncomfortable silence, and then Emily shook herself and said, “More bacon?” and things were more or less back to normal. As normal as their interactions with her had ever been, at least.
POETIC JUSTICE [18/18]; Sam, Dean, Castiel; PG for language; Warning: Poetry.chibifriezaApril 6 2010, 19:19:00 UTC
*
Sam insisted on helping her clean up after breakfast, and she saw them to the door.
“So you boys’ll be moving on, then, I take it?” she asked. At their questioning expressions, she clarified: “This is what you do, isn’t it? Nobody just unpicks a coven while staying in a motel just for the fun of it. I’m right, aren’t I?” They nodded. She gave them another long look, then said, “Be careful. And I’m sorry about the curse,” she added. “I really am.” Sam shrugged; Dean rubbed at the back of his neck. “No, really. You didn’t deserve it. You surprised me, actually.” This last was directed at Dean. “Thanks for not trying anything. I underestimated you.”
She held out her hand, and they shook it, one after the other, and left.
The walk back to the Impala, which was still parked outside the deserted two-story where the coven had trapped Castiel, took almost half an hour. Twenty minutes in, Sam bumped his shoulder against Dean’s.
“So you didn’t unfold her origami potential after all.”
Dean shoved him back.
“Vixen.”
“Whiplash.”
Castiel was waiting for them when they got back to the motel room.
“Is the intention,” he asked, “to go merrily and with the sound of bells along the ribbon of tar, or to wallow in honey and victory for a while?”
“We’ll go merrily,” replied Dean. “The honey here is in a sealed jar and stopped with intelligence.”
They checked out and hit the road. As Dean eased onto the highway, he glanced over at Sam and grinned. Castiel was in the back seat; the windows were down; the sky was blue, and they’d just saved somebody’s life again.
“Pretty effervescent sandwich, isn’t it, Sammy?”
Sam tossed his grin right back at him and settled more comfortably in his seat. As curses went, this one really wasn’t so bad. He was beginning to revise his impression of librarians.
Re: POETIC JUSTICE [18/18]; Sam, Dean, Castiel; PG for language; Warning: Poetry.zekkassApril 8 2010, 13:17:29 UTC
This is the most impressive story I think I've ever written, 'cause you did it in character, complete with proper poetry forms, and with a plot to boot!
Also, Castiel being impressive while talking in the voice of my favorite poet ever? Pure win.
Re: POETIC JUSTICE [18/18]; Sam, Dean, Castiel; PG for language; Warning: Poetry.chibifriezaApril 8 2010, 15:41:09 UTC
Thank you so much! I'm glad you enjoyed it.
I KNOW RIGHT. I read the prompt and went CASTIEL IS GOING TO BE BADASS ON E. E. CUMMINGS DAY. THAT'S JUST THE WAY IT IS. Well, I think maybe that didn't happen until I had the beginning of my plot, which fdkjhfgjkdlh didn't happen AT ALL until, like, halfway through Day 1, but. I'm so glad it hit you right. I wasn't sure I had the voice anymore by that point, so I'm taking your compliment as an indicator that I didn't slip too far, at least. :D
Re: POETIC JUSTICE [18/18]; Sam, Dean, Castiel; PG for language; Warning: Poetry.chibifriezaApril 8 2010, 17:21:06 UTC
I don't mind in the least! I hope you don't mind if I don't friend you back, though; I don't make very many locked posts, and when I do, it's because they're fairly private. I am flattered by your attention, however. :D
Dean was already up and dressed when Sam woke up. Two days until Beltane, and a cocky librarian virgin sacrifice to keep an eye on.
“Sifting
oatmeal,
while
holding
apples
to
slice,
takes
horrible
efficiency.
Perhaps
lemons
at
night?”
Dean’s pained expression probably mirrored Sam’s own.
“Next
operation,
maybe
optimal
results
equal
taking
alternate
lateral
knowledge
into
next
generation!”
Sam couldn’t agree more.
It was a maddening sort of day. They’d figured out the essence of what was going to go down on Friday; they’d figured out who the main players would be. All they could really do at this point was gather any additional information they could get through observation. This involved tailing the Colemans again. They considered switching marks to minimise the chances of their being noticed, but Sam thought it would be better to keep it the same as yesterday, in case any patterns came up in places or people; he figured Dean had had the same idea, because they came to a silent agreement via hand gestures and eyebrows in a matter of moments.
Again, they met up at noon. Sam had witnessed three interactions that triggered his hunter instincts; Dean had apparently sighted four potential members of the coven they were now fully convinced did indeed exist. Not for the first time, Sam was extremely grateful that he and his brother had learned to communicate so well without words.
They gave it up for the day, ordered pizza online again, and watched bad TV all afternoon. Castiel popped back in around sunset.
“This
opal
doorway
archly
yawns;
inside,
splendour.
Diffidence
in
fecundity
follows
ingracious
courtesy
under
linden
trees,”
he announced plaintively.
“Finding
us
crowned
king
means
you
leave
it
for
elephants,”
muttered Dean.
Sam desperately wished for Thursday to come. Surely nothing could be more tedious than this.
*
In a way, Thursday was a reprieve. It was not, however, precisely the reprieve for which Sam had been hoping.
“Slarn crannelent,” Dean greeted him, in resigned tones, when he awoke.
“Felpish gretsch rescent?” Sam inquired blearily.
“Gault,” interjected Castiel. “Clorungent prist, indeltus airen.”
“Trell,” Sam acknowledged.
So pretty much it was a really good thing that they didn’t have anything pressing to accomplish today.
Aside from a quick swing past Emily’s to verify that she was still a free woman, they spent the majority of the day going stir-crazy in the motel room. Amazingly, Castiel stuck around all day; Sam gathered that his impaired speech was impeding his search, though he couldn’t fathom how that could be the case. However it worked, Castiel was there, and Sam found he enjoyed the angel’s company. It was somehow comforting to be reminded that even a higher order of being could be afflicted in the same manner that he and Dean could. It was also hilarious when he couldn’t hold himself back from commentary because Dean decided to bait him by turning on “Touched By An Angel.”
“Vithilten, borivus pomeril!” he declared urgently, when one of the angels had made an especially inaccurate statement. “Thurvid casteron, fainch, dan quoxit lermenath!”
It was difficult not to laugh out loud, but they managed. Mostly.
Sam found an Italian delivery place that took online orders, so they ended up with spaghetti and breadsticks and ceasar salad, and a room that reeked of garlic. Partway through the afternoon, Dean discovered a Star Wars marathon that had been running all day. They’d only missed the first three episodes, which neither Sam nor Dean acknowledged as canonical Star Wars anyway. Dean nudged Castiel when he changed the channel just in time to see the Tantive IV fleeing across the dark of space, followed closely by the inexorable bulk of the Imperial Star Destroyer.
“Dolsh breskna,” he whispered gleefully. Castiel paid careful attention to everything that followed.
Altogether, it was a surprisingly good day.
*
Reply
The first of May dawned behind cloud cover, an inauspicious portent if ever Sam had seen one. However, it was apparently supposed to clear up around noon, which meant that any rituals being planned for the evening wouldn’t have to relocate. That would have been a complication they could definitely do without. Meanwhile, they had a pretty good idea of the location of the sacrifices from tailing the Colemans, so that was under control.
There was still Emily to consider. Whatever she thought she was capable of, there was a good chance it wasn’t going to be enough to save her.
With these cheerful thoughts, Sam rolled onto his back. Dean sat up in the next bed, snuffling a little.
“Similar to,” said Sam, “a restless
spirit I today am
waiting(not-patiently
as one dead and
fixated)for an
event terrible
and momentous,like
dying inevitable.”
Dean snorted.
“you
(always and again)
are(even now)
unnecessarily
verbose
but i agree”
After they were dressed, it was time to make plans. They probably both had a good idea of what needed to happen, but they had to make sure they weren’t on different pages. Really, with this particular volume, Sam thought before launching into a preliminary sketch, you never knew.
“If supposing first
lacking pointedly unintelligence
the cruel and human-killing
miscreants(a match or
for-Emily-more to capture)
to be,not
to be
stupid:closely to
follow that
singular furrow of not-earth
lain(deliberately)fallow
and with our hands
(bloodied as theirs
in spite of fewer years
held in them)keep
one flower
clean.”
Dean acknowledged that any plan had to at least start there.
“The fate of our librarian
depends on whether,moving in,
the kidnappers(killers,even)
are such as you and I can take
(overpowered back to back
yes, but dodging spells, we suck
at)and therein lies the rub:
the cultists sent make the grab
will curse before they break a rib.
and(seeing as we’ve had enough
of curses)we need more than stiff-
ened upper lips for this riffraff.”
Personal wards only went so far, and if they were up against a powerful coven, they were definitely going to need something more to ensure their own safety, so that they could actually do some good protecting Emily.
In a moment of serendipitous timing, Castiel arrived. Dean turned to him as one inspired.
“On my lips straining urgently
the short-and-sweet question of this
(entangled with intrigue)moment
is thus:can you
take down a coven at need?”
“GLADLY WILL I DO,” intoned Castiel,
“th)
isa
tl:e
ast
I ca
n!st
il
l m
anage
I WILL GLADLY DO IT
no
t.y
et a
m I
so
wea)
k
POWERS I HAVE
I HAVE THE POWERS.”
So that was settled.
*
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Typically the victims disappeared in the afternoon of the day on which they were murdered; that gave them the morning to prepare. The three of them went first to the library, just for peace of mind. Emily gave them a wave and a cheerful grin from the other end of a long aisle; they didn’t bother trying to talk to her. Retreating back outside, they crossed the street to a small playground, currently deserted. Castiel perched on top of the merry-go-round; Dean and Sam each took a swing.
“Aside leaving historical
of badlywrong gone
operations proof(since
in existence are equal
numbers of otherwise
impossible likewise)
when Independently acting,”
began Sam,
“tasks multiple seemingly
and discrete potential
there is for:to take
custody discreetly of
she who is to die,
and also to effect
completely and forever(and a day
my comrades,and always)the
cessation of ritual killings by
those who plan to slay.
How(then)is this(now)to be accomplished?”
“I,” said Castiel, “having the
godgiven and not(wholly)
diminished capacity to
quell evil,will undertake
to render neutralandharmless
our antagonists.”
“if hoping to,” pointed out Dean,
we were ever avert the
capture of Emily(to circumnavigate
complication)plain-seemingly
clear the solution stands:that
we brothers should the lady follow
and leave to the angel those who
court darkness,
communicating as may arise
the need.Then
encroaching on their subtlety
from either end
we may subdue the middle
and(preventing moreover
the ritual at all)accomplish peace.”
It seemed like the best option: split up, with Castiel, who was unquestionably better suited to following multiple targets anyway, keeping track of the coven and hopefully averting the kidnapping attempt, while Sam and Dean attached themselves to Emily after the manner of bodyguards as a second line of defense. Hopefully, they could make sure the coven never got near Emily, that Emily never got near the ritual, and the sacrifice never happened. Castiel could put the fear of God in the Colemans and their groupies, break up the party, and ensure the safety of virgins in the area henceforth.
It was really hard to make cohesive watertight plans when you couldn’t speak properly, okay, and Sam thought they were doing really well. Anyway, it was going to work. He was sure of it. That was even discounting whatever Emily had up her sleeve, so when you added that in, they were golden. It was still as nervewracking as any other hunt, of course. Because if they failed, someone was going to die. And people were going to keep dying. And it was very important that they succeed.
In other words, a fairly standard day’s work. Sam took the anticipatory adrenaline rush and made it work for him, as he’d been doing for most of his life.
He got up off the swing.
“First,” he said, “and most importantly I
think that in order
lunch probably is(since Dean,
I hear the melody of your
insides)and then
let’s get to it.”
Sam faked laryngitis this time, and they ate standing up in a parking lot under a rapidly clearing sky.
*
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Emily took their company with good grace. That is to say, she laughed in their faces first, and then ignored them. Sam was just glad she hadn’t insisted they leave her alone. They shadowed her through the rest of her work day, hovering near the desk while she did paperwork, covering both ends of the aisle when she was shelving, and generally not letting her out of their sight. None of the known initiates showed up, but they couldn’t let their guard down; they didn’t know how many others there might be.
It wasn’t until she finished for the day and was on her way out of the library that everything started to fall apart.
Dean’s phone rang on the way down the stairs. He picked up the call without speaking and listened for a moment. His face grew suddenly tight.
“where
are you
and
are you
hurt?”
he demanded. Sam felt a jolt. Cas was in trouble? This wasn’t good at all. If they knew how to get the drop on an angel, they knew far more than any human should.
Dean ended the call.
“they lured him
and trapped him
in holy oil burning
(his power scorning),”
he announced grimly,
“and who knows how they knew
But I will do what I can do.
take care of Emily
(they will be coming)
we will be coming back.”
He took off running, in the direction of where he’d parked earlier, leaving Sam reeling on the steps.
For a few seconds, all he could do was watch his brother’s retreating back, his mind stuck in a loop of trapped him and they will be coming. Then he shook himself out of it - this was not the time to lose focus, dammit - and turned to Emily. She looked surprised, a little confused, but that was all. She had no idea.
There was no way he could explain, not today, not now. They needed to get off the street. He touched her arm to get her attention, then mimed driving a car.
“What? Oh. Yeah, my car’s around the corner. I suppose you’re coming with.”
Sam nodded firmly. Now more than ever, he was not leaving her alone.
She drove a yellow hatchback Honda civic, which was unfortunate. Sam folded himself awkwardly into the passenger side, shifted the seat back as far as it would go, and resigned himself to an uncomfortable ride. He was stiff from agitation and the cramped quarters by the time they got to her house, and when she pulled up in front of the small grey bungalow with its girdle of lavish shrubbery, he climbed out with a feeling of intense relief.
The yard looked clear, but he kept up a scan as he followed her to her door. When she put her key in the lock and turned it, Sam held up his hand and gestured for her to let him go in first. She rolled her eyes.
“Fine, whatever floats your boat.” She pushed the door open and made a sweeping gesture. “Welcome to my domain.”
Sam hitched the gun out of his waistband and shouldered the door open carefully. The front hall was clear; he edged around the doorway to the front room, and then a jagged darkness crashed down through him like a boulder before he even had time to register the sensation, and dragged him under.
*
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Too much time had passed. He could tell without even opening his eyes. They’d outsmarted him, outmaneuvered him, and now they had Emily and she was going to die.
No. No, he reminded himself savagely, Dean had gone for Castiel, and Emily was no slouch, and maybe she’d make it out alive somehow.
Maybe Sam could still help.
There was a distant sort of ache in his head, but it wasn’t like the pain from a blow. Probably some kind of whammy had put him under, and that was why nothing really hurt. He should really get his eyes open soon.
He gave it a shot.
Oh, hey. There.
He was outdoors, lying on his back on what felt like grass, looking up at a still-light sky - pinkening on one side, like the sun was starting to set, with a few stars poking through the deeper blue off to the left. It wasn’t too late, after all. But he didn’t have much time. He tried to sit up, and succeeded with unexpected ease. There didn’t seem to be any lingering aftereffects of the... well, of whatever it had been. Good.
Sam got to his feet.
He was in someone’s backyard - Emily’s, he amended when he turned around, recognising the style of her house. He checked for his weapons: they’d taken his Taurus, but had missed the knife. All right. The ritual place was in a park, probably twenty minutes away if he ran.
He made it in just over fifteen. He was breathing hard, but not harshly; his passage through the beech copse, too small to be called woods, but big and undergrown enough to hide what happened within its borders, was nearly silent. Within moments, he came to the edge of a small clearing, almost at the very centre. He took a minute to assess the situation; it didn’t look good.
An altar had been set up in the middle, bearing a knife, a cup, a small cauldron, and a number of other things he couldn’t see clearly. Laurie Coleman stood near it, arranging objects with practised deliberation. Eleven robed initiates and Greg were ranged about the clearing, busy with tasks or simply awaiting the start of the ritual. Two of them, off to one side, stood on guard, and it took Sam a moment to realise that the dark shadow under the tree was in fact Emily, huddled at the roots and bound hand and foot. She didn’t move - couldn’t, Sam guessed - but her eyes were wide, darting around the clearing, catching the flare of the torch that Greg now lit. Her face was unbloodied, but bruised, and her clothing was torn. It looked like she’d given them a good run, he thought, but it hadn’t been enough.
He wasn’t sure what he could do for her alone.
For starters, he began working his way along the perimeter of the clearing, edging closer to Emily. Things appeared to be still in the preparatory stages, so he thought he had a little time.
So focused was Sam on the clearing and keeping his movements silent that when someone grabbed his arm, he almost gave away his position by attacking. As he jerked around, though, another hand came up to his collarbone, hushing and reassuring, and he saw Dean’s eyes glint in the torchlight. His brother leaned in and spoke quietly in his ear.
“when distraction there is
created angel-wise
you and I(swiftly)
to untie Emily
must make all haste.”
Dean drew back, and Sam nodded understanding. Together, they crept the rest of the way toward Emily, ending up situated behind the tree under which she sat bound. There was nothing they could do now but wait for Castiel to make his move.
*
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They didn’t have to wait long. As the sky darkened, the robed figures formed a circle and Greg and Laurie raised their clasped hands in preparation. For what, Sam never found out, because in that moment, Castiel appeared in the centre of their circle, right next to the altar, which he toppled with a casual sweep of his arm. The torch flickered wildly and one of the initiates flinched visibly.
“you who this night here for
the purpose of bloodshed
gather,hear me:thus command I
you.the abominations you practice
you shall cease;henceforth
the blood of innocents
you shall spill no more.”
Castiel’s voice carried the gravitas of Heaven’s messenger, rumbling through the clearing and up to the evening sky. The coven stood frozen, shocked and cowed by his unexpected appearance and the command in his tone. Whatever tricks they had used on him before, they had no defense against this. Sam was almost transfixed, himself, but Dean tugged his sleeve, and they moved toward Emily while her guards were focused on Cas.
“Four-and-twenty the lives
devoted to your selfish perversions
and you shall not deprive another
(never again will you cut off another)
of her spark,God-created,not
yours to measure or to use.”
They reached Emily and went to work on the ropes, Sam at her feet, Dean at her hands. Her eyes flashed with hope when they appeared, but she made no move to give them better access, confirming Sam’s thought that she was somehow immobilised. When the bindings were cut through, Sam picked her up carefully and Dean drew his Colt, covering their escape with the only weapon he had. It was pointless and somewhat futile, since Castiel had the attention of everyone else in the clearing and a gun wasn’t much defense against witches anyway, but it was as instinctive and necessary to Dean as breathing.
As they retreated, they heard Castiel’s voice echoing after them.
“I a Messenger of the living God
thee adjure:never to practice thy false
crafts more,nor never thy morbid
sacrifices to make,nor...”
They passed beyond clear understanding, but the timbre of the angelic proclamation followed them for blocks.
*
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About halfway back to Emily’s house, the paralysis seemed to lift, and she began to move in Sam’s arms.
“Hey,” she said in a hoarse rasp. She cleared her throat and tried again. “I’m okay, you can put me down now.” Her voice was still rough, but clearing up as she spoke. Reluctantly, Sam lowered her to her feet, holding on long enough for her to get her balance. When she stood by her own power, she looked up at him, then at Dean, and said, “I- Thank you. I can’t- I wasn’t expecting.” She took a deep breath. “Wow, I’m an idiot. Look, you saved my life. I can’t thank you properly for something like that.” She shifted her stance and gestured awkwardly. “If you’re hungry, I can offer you dinner? I started a crock pot this morning, beef stew, it’s probably still fine...”
Sam grinned and jerked a thumb at Dean.
“he,
always hungry and never
satisfied,probably
could actually
eat a horse.”
Dean punched him in the shoulder, hard, but he was grinning too, and shrugged, acknowledging the truth of what Sam said.
They walked the rest of the way to Laurie’s house together. Half a block out, Castiel appeared beside them.
“if you harbour still
any worries,
do not,for I have
the evildoers chastened
and they are subdued.”
Emily started violently when he began to speak, but when she registered who it was, she relaxed.
“I should thank you, too,” she said. “I have no idea what you did back there, but that was damn impressive.” Castiel inclined his head. “Do you want to come back to my place for stew?” He hesitated, and she said quickly, “Don’t feel obligated. Just, I wanted to show my appreciation. You know. For shaking up those creeps.” Castiel moved to stand in front of her, touched a hand briefly to her shoulder.
“You are
a daughter most precious and
beloved;they were
criminals against all things
good and pure.
Your life continuing
is thanks enough.”
She turned her head toward Sam in confused awe; when she turned back, Castiel had gone.
The stew was fine, as it turned out, and Dean had three bowls of it and Sam had one, and they slept on her couches because, she awkwardly explained, they didn’t have to but it was just hard to get over having your home invaded, and would they mind?
They didn’t mind at all. Despite the unusual size of the larger couch, Sam woke up with cricks in places he hadn’t known could crick, but he was okay with that. Emily was alive and safe. That made up for a lot.
*
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There was a smell and a sizzle of bacon frying and the beautiful aroma of coffee when Sam woke up, early sunlight filtering in through the sheer front curtains. He sat up slowly, unfolding himself with care and precision, and finding out exactly how his sleeping accomodation had affected his spine. Glancing over toward the other couch, he discovered that his brother was absent. Then he heard a low feminine laugh from the direction of the kitchen, and sighed, shaking his head. He got up off the couch, popped his back in as many ways as he possibly could, and headed for the kitchen.
Dean sat at the tiny table drinking coffee, his attention focused all on Emily. She was clattering around cheerfully, checking the bacon, making toast, scrambling eggs. When she noticed Sam in the doorway, she tipped her head in the direction of the far counter.
“Coffee machine’s over there. I’ll be done in a minute here.”
Sam poured himself a cup, and went to join Dean at the table. He took a sip of coffee - man, that beat diner coffee any day of the week - elbowed his brother, and raised an eyebrow. Dean shrugged, and returned a hey, what can I say? half-grin.
Emily came over then and started dishing out eggs. Breakfast was mostly silent, and Sam was just as glad; he wasn’t sure he was keen on finding out what the last day of the curse entailed while in the presence of the one who had cast it.
The first to finish eating was Emily, though, and she sat back and eyed them speculatively.
“You know,” she said, “I never did get your names.”
Sam and Dean exchanged a look of dread, mouths full. Sam gave an internal sigh, swallowed, and prepared to take one for the team.
“My name is Sam,” and that wasn’t so bad, but oh, then:
“and this, the brother of my soul
the name written in the eyes of my heart
is Dean.”
That sounded... oh, man, she was going to think... well, talk about your unfortunate side-effects. Sam dropped his face into his hands. Then he felt a heavy pressure on his foot and, unbelievably, Dean jumped in to save him.
“Even though
the parrot of our mouths
is being forced to squawk
unfamiliar architecture,
the sky of truth is
revealed anyway.
Our mother dropped sparks
in an agony of white dress
when we were grasshoppers,
and since then our father
has drowned innumerably
and is no more.
We are the only two stars
in our sky
and the planets are against us.”
Sam hoped she could understand, through the filter of her own curse, what Dean was trying to say: We really are brothers, and we’ve been through a lot together, and we’re all we have left. He looked up cautiously, and was surprised by the stricken compassion in Emily’s eyes.
“I’m so sorry,” she said quietly. “I can’t imagine what it’s been like for you.” There was a somewhat uncomfortable silence, and then Emily shook herself and said, “More bacon?” and things were more or less back to normal. As normal as their interactions with her had ever been, at least.
*
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Sam insisted on helping her clean up after breakfast, and she saw them to the door.
“So you boys’ll be moving on, then, I take it?” she asked. At their questioning expressions, she clarified: “This is what you do, isn’t it? Nobody just unpicks a coven while staying in a motel just for the fun of it. I’m right, aren’t I?” They nodded. She gave them another long look, then said, “Be careful. And I’m sorry about the curse,” she added. “I really am.” Sam shrugged; Dean rubbed at the back of his neck. “No, really. You didn’t deserve it. You surprised me, actually.” This last was directed at Dean. “Thanks for not trying anything. I underestimated you.”
She held out her hand, and they shook it, one after the other, and left.
The walk back to the Impala, which was still parked outside the deserted two-story where the coven had trapped Castiel, took almost half an hour. Twenty minutes in, Sam bumped his shoulder against Dean’s.
“So you didn’t
unfold her origami potential
after all.”
Dean shoved him back.
“Vixen.”
“Whiplash.”
Castiel was waiting for them when they got back to the motel room.
“Is the intention,” he asked, “to go
merrily and with the sound of bells
along the ribbon of tar,
or to wallow in honey
and victory for a while?”
“We’ll go merrily,” replied Dean.
“The honey here is in
a sealed jar and stopped with
intelligence.”
They checked out and hit the road. As Dean eased onto the highway, he glanced over at Sam and grinned. Castiel was in the back seat; the windows were down; the sky was blue, and they’d just saved somebody’s life again.
“Pretty effervescent sandwich, isn’t it, Sammy?”
Sam tossed his grin right back at him and settled more comfortably in his seat. As curses went, this one really wasn’t so bad. He was beginning to revise his impression of librarians.
*
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(The comment has been removed)
(thank you! I am very glad to hear it.)
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Also, Castiel being impressive while talking in the voice of my favorite poet ever? Pure win.
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I KNOW RIGHT. I read the prompt and went CASTIEL IS GOING TO BE BADASS ON E. E. CUMMINGS DAY. THAT'S JUST THE WAY IT IS. Well, I think maybe that didn't happen until I had the beginning of my plot, which fdkjhfgjkdlh didn't happen AT ALL until, like, halfway through Day 1, but. I'm so glad it hit you right. I wasn't sure I had the voice anymore by that point, so I'm taking your compliment as an indicator that I didn't slip too far, at least. :D
Thanks so much for your comment!
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