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Timestamp #7 - Land of Sky-Blue Waters 2/3, NC17, Dean/Sam
Land of Sky-Blue Waters (2/3)
by Maygra
Dean/Sam. NC17. More or less follows Dead Man's Curve. (For Allie who wanted 15 weeks later.)
Part of the Open Road Series of loosely affiliated stories: (Reminders of Echoes, Midnight at the Majestic, and Land of Trembling Earth).
Many thanks to demrepic and ruby_jelly for the beta,
The characters and situations portrayed here are not mine, they belong to the CW. This is a fan authored work and no profit is being made. Please do not link to this story without appropriate warnings. Please do not archive this story without my permission.
(20,604 words)
Despite renewed warmth in the house, neither of them were inclined to head back to bed. Dean retrieved a shotgun loaded with salt from the weapons carry and laid it cracked open on the low coffee table. They didn't bother with the lights, letting the fire provide illumination, coffee bubbled in the percolator again and Dean settled into work the crossword puzzle from the back of some magazine he'd picked up. Sam cracked the new spine on a paperback and tilted it toward the light to read, but couldn't focus enough to even begin to grasp plot or care about the characters. He settled for sorting the piles further by genre then by author, staring at the cover art on a few, and playing a familiar game of seeing if he could guess the storyline as described on the back blurb by art alone.
"What did it sound like?" Dean asked nearly an hour later.
"Just voices. Talking."
"How many voices?"
That was a better question and Sam had to examine the faint adrenaline-laced memories for details. It was similar to the way Dean drew out details from Sam's visions, parsing out pertinent facts from pain -- although at least with this latest thing, there had been no pain. "Three, I think."
"Male or female?"
Harder still, the tones low and soft and offering no clue. The cadence had been intense but not aggressive. He couldn’t find an answer to Dean's question or even offer an educated guess.
Bed or not, Sam did drift a little, woke and returned when Dean dropped a light blanket over him and a cushion from the worn sofa for himself, settling shoulder and hip to Sam's back. What felt like normal dreams played out behind Sam's closed eyes, of tumbling water and wind tossed trees, the crunch of fresh snow and the lacing of ice against shallow riverbanks. He thought he heard the rattle of chimes and the clacking of bones but none of it was alarming. When Sam came out of his drowse again it was lighter outside and Dean was moving quietly in the kitchen, trying not to wake him as he tapped utensils against metal bowls, and heavy plates against the counter.
They spent the morning after breakfast with light chores, recaulking the window panes and sealing them, then clearing loose brush from around the cabin's foundation. Dean cranked up the Impala and rolled the windows down, letting music blast out of the speakers and scaring the wildlife for a mile. Sam figured Dean's willingness to stay here would last only as long as the list of chores or the food lasted, an observation that neither slowed nor quickened his own efforts. The painting alone would take them a few days, shoveling the pile of fresh gravel under the propane tank and around the foundation another two and the size of the pile explained some of the deeper ruts in the road in. That was the kind of back-breaking work Sam didn't look forward to, but could see the necessity for.
Sometime after lunch, Dean turned his attention to the car, not shy about using the reservoir to give her a good wash and putting attention into the detail like he did on his guns. Sam grabbed up a bottle of water and couple of apples, and voiced his intention of following one of the many trails that led away from the cabin -- overgrown but still visible. An hour or so, less than two, he promised and Dean checked his watch before returning to his waxing, lips compressed but offering no other protest. He was wary of letting Sam too far out of his sight -- a truth that had been with Sam as long as he could remember. He checked his own watch and set the small alarm to remind him when he was a half hour out. That seemed to ease Dean's expression and Sam headed off on the trail to avoid showing Dean either aggravation or amusement.
The trail was mostly a straight shot, bending only slightly around larger trees, and actually well marked with faded red paint every 100 yards or so. It meant the path probably actually led to something or somewhere -- Sam was betting on a blind or even a clearing for dressing kills. The cabin was meant for hunters of the big game kind, although all Sam had seen thus far were rabbits.
He was surprised when the path faltered and dumped onto a flat of rock and shale and winter-gray scrub that gave way to a slow-moving stream. Just at that point the stream opened into a pool, flanked by rock on either bank and too wide for Sam to cross without finding a narrower neck of the stream. The pool itself was opaque by virtue of reflecting the blue sky above, impossible to gauge the depth of by sight alone. A broken branch the length of Sam's arm sank under the water, but a second, not quite as tall as Sam, hit bottom and stirred muck and leaves up to the surface, interrupting the mirrored stillness. The water was ice cold, but a couple of sheered rounds of trunk indicated that their unnamed host may well have chose the place as much for the nearby swimming hole as for the isolation.
A hundred yard down stream the stream picked up speed again, tumbling and gurgling across rocks and cutting into the banks on either side. The woods closed in around it again as the land rose slightly and Sam's watch chirped as he hit a point where a missed stepped would send him over a drop of about five feet or so. There was deer-sign here, and fox, animals tracking the water's edge on their way to the pool.
He headed back, eyes on the opposite bank, wondering if there was a place to cross further upstream.
The mud he'd stirred up had settled by the time he returned, the highly reflective surface almost hypnotizing. He finished his bottle of water and dipped the plastic in, the water clear with little sediment. He wasn't usually so incautious as to drink untested water -- no idea where the stream sourced from, but it was likely the water was the same water in the well. It was bitingly cold, icy to the point of giving him a momentary brain-freeze that made him tense his jaw and squeeze his eyes shut.
When he opened them again the clearing was all in shadow, a solid bank of clouds obscuring the sun, and everything sounded muted to his ears. The pool went from bright and shining to dark and slightly disorienting, the way the darker cloud layer gave the impression of the water boiling just under the surface. It was a trick of shadow and light and the tannin in the water that had settled at the bottom, but Sam stumbled backward when one of the cloud shapes seemed to morph into an almost recognizable face of darkened eyes and streaming hair, lips parted as if to speak. Nothing broke the surface of the water and Sam's heart was pounding as he stared; that face staring back up at him. Then he had to blink and squeeze his eyes shut when the sun emerged, glaring off the water like a camera flash and the face vanished like it had never been. He backed up, checking the pool and the sky, and then tensing when another cloud bank moved in and shuttered the sun away once more.
He wanted it to be clouds.
He wasn't surprised when it wasn't.
He came no closer to the water's edge on seeing the face again, and the face in the water showed no signs of emerging from the pool. There was more than a face though; pale arms stretched out just under the surface, seeming content to observe Sam as he observed his watery visitor. Hard to tell if it was male or female despite the long hair. The rest of the body, if there was one, was obscured in the pool's depth and the still present reflections of clouds moving. The hands didn't beckon him closer and the lips remained parted, curved in what might be a smile or might simply be a distortion of the water.
Legends of Nixies and Nymphs and Kelpies repeated themselves as he stared, but he felt no compulsion beyond curiosity to get closer to the water or do anything else except want to know what it was.
The sun eased out again and the thing sank, although this was a gradual drop, the pale shape of it visible beneath the water but far more indistinct. And then Sam did step closer, wondering if it were the sunlight that drove it away or simple boredom. He remained out of grabbing reach, but the shape in the water moved further toward the center, away from him, eyeing him suspiciously.
"Sam?" Dean's voice startled him but not enough to make him fall or stumble or even to turn around and put his back to the water. Instead he rose and backed up before angling toward Dean, but still able to keep an eye on the pool.
"There's something in the water," Sam said and Dean drew up close, and drew his gun. Sam laid a hand on his wrist. "It hasn't tried anything, hasn't come out. It's just watching."
"If it's watching from the water that can't be good." Dean was tense from more than just Sam's words. "Where the hell have you been?"
"Here…I mean I walked downstream, but then came back."
"You've been gone for nearly four hours. I was heading back to get a pack and flashlights and call Bobby to haul his ass out here."
"I haven't--" Sam started to say and glanced at his watch. More time had passed than he'd expected, and he stared at it, trying to fill in the gaps and came up with nothing.
The sun, for all that he'd been watching it, had definitely shifted angles and he'd missed it in his stare down with the thing in the water. He was suddenly aware of the ache in his legs and his feet from standing in once place for so long. "I've been here, right here the whole time."
"I've been past this pool three times and you weren't here. Nothing happened?" Dean asked, drawing him back along the trail, checking over his shoulder as if expecting something to emerge from the water.
"Nothing. I stared at it, it stared at me. I was trying to figure out what it is."
"Did it say anything?"
Sam shook his head, glad when Dean's fingers clenched in the back of his shirt. "Nothing. I only saw it when the sun went behind the clouds."
"Jesus…" Dean said and looked up. The sky was cloudless, open and bright blue, for miles from the vista of the clearing, not even faint wisps of vapor. "Tell me -- everything you did -- and keep walking," he said nudging Sam forward..
Sam did, from the walk and the view where the stream undercut the bank, the paw and hoof prints he'd seen, deer spoor…all the way back, Dean needling him for details however minute…Sam's throat felt a dry and he lifted the bottle, then stopped. "I drank the water," he said.
"What?"
"I drank the water. Before I saw anything…"
Dean stared at the bottle. It was clear, the thinnest bit of sediment swirling in the bottom from Sam jostling it as they walked. "Don't drink any more," he said and took the bottle from Sam, offering his own. Dean didn't toss it or empty it though. "I'm gonna kill Bobby," he said as the cabin drew into view. "He swore there was nothing out here."
"Maybe he didn't know." Sam was ready for a hot shower and to get off his feet.
"He should have," Dean said, still angry and he hadn't let go of Sam's shirt, didn't until they reached the two steps up and through the back door.
"It didn't do anything."
"Yeah?" Dean was openly skeptical. "You disappeared for at least a couple of hours, Sam. Maybe you just don't remember." Then he was tugging at Sam's shirt, peeling the flannel off and checking Sam's arms, his hands. Checking him all over.
"What are you looking for?"
"Hell if I know -- marks, bites, tattoos -- something stamped on your ass saying something else has decided to lay claim to you," Dean said and tugged his T-shirt. His voice was steady, low and pissed off, and Sam through about arguing but Dean was in phase one of a freak out and Sam would rather he didn't escalate to phase two. He peeled his T-shirt off, feeling it stick slightly and his arms ached -- sweat and stillness. The fact that he'd apparently lost a couple of hours should be freaking him out as much as Dean, and he couldn't really say why it wasn't. The stare down, like the voices in the night -- neither of them had felt threatening. Not beguiling either, just there.
"I need a shower."
"In a minute." Dean was behind him, fingers brushing lightly over Sam's back and along his spine, checking under his armpits even to pushing the hair there aside. Sam felt like he was being groomed by a chimpanzee. He unfastened his belt and opened his jeans, but had to bend over to unlace his boots.
"Shower now. Strip down and come with me and you can keep checking while I get the sweat off," Sam said and didn't add to ease the aches, because Dean apparently had enough to worry about.
Dean's mouth was set again and he glared but pulled off his own shirt and then it was all, 'hurry up' and 'now, Sam'.
Dean didn't give up his examination and Sam let him check the bottoms of his feet while they waited for the hot water to start flowing. Then it was more of the same, and Sam almost started laughing at the thought of Dean on his knees in front of Sam's crotch and touching him without actually thinking about sex was the second weirdest thing that had happened to him. The same was true when he turned Sam around to face the showerhead and used the flats of both hands to part Sam's ass cheeks and check the crease. Hands in Sam's wet hair had all the sexiness of Dean checking for head lice, the same when his fingers went into Sam's mouth, checking the inside of his lips and his gums and under his tongue. He turned Sam again to check the nape of his neck, fingers slick and Sam closed his eyes to keep the water out of them -- then pushed back.
"It's the same water," he said.
"What water?"
"Here. In the reservoir. I mean, it's possible the well is fed from the same water source."
Dean's fingers tightened on the nape of his neck then eased. "Great. Now maybe we'll both be seeing your freaky water faery when I make spaghetti."
"Or it's got nothing to do with the water -- drinking it, I mean -- at all. Wait. You're making spaghetti?" Sam loved Dean's spaghetti. He always started with a jar, but added something to it. He refused to tell Sam what he did.
Dean handed him a wet washcloth and the soap. "Get clean." He stepped out of the shower.
Sam hurried, aware that there was a certain lethargy that was leaving him -- something he hadn't noticed. When he dried off and changed into dry clothes, he found Dean on the couch, a beer in hand. There was a stewpot of water coming to a boil on the stove. Sam dropped down beside him and stole his beer. Dean let him have it. He looked less freaked out but he was still simmering underneath. Sam nudged him and passed the beer back. "I'm fine. I'm sorry you were worried."
Dean rolled his eyes and took the beer, finishing off the last half of the bottle and then getting up to drop the empty in the trash and check the water on the stove.
Sam sighed -- quietly -- and got up to follow him. "You want garlic bread?" he asked and Dean only grunted. Sam got the bread loaf and made a pan of foil, buttering each slice of bread before cutting it in half, then being generous with the garlic salt and parmesan cheese. They didn't have any dried parsley, but there was oregano and he hesitated with the plastic container, vividly recalling doing this with Jessica. They'd used actual French bread, Jess kind of appalled at the idea of using bagged, sliced white bread. She'd been the one to teach him to use the herbs in addition to the salt and cheese, had insisted on olive oil rather than margarine. They'd compromised on actual butter.
It took him a moment to realize that the voice in his head he was hearing wasn't Jessica's but the same indistinct whispers, only this time with the lights on and Dean wide awake beside him. Sam touched his arm lightly to get his attention, and turned to face the wider room. "Voices again," he said softly and Dean jerked around, eyes narrowing as he tried to catch sight of or hear anything in the room. Dean cut the heat under the almost boiling water. As before, the voices neither diminished nor rose in volume. They murmured along, different tones pitching over each other. It sounded more familiar though and Sam struggled to think why.
The water settled in the pot and the metal pinged as it cooled.
Dean edged toward the front door, eyes on Sam when he opened it. The voices drained away, like water over rocks in the stream. "It's the water," Sam said. It was. The sound of water in the creek as it raced downstream only here it was contained and muffled, threading through earth and concrete and the wood of the flooring. He didn't know why opening the door made a difference but it did. Like the water was trapped but still flowing, as impossible as that seemed.
"Gone again?"
Sam nodded. "We should check the pool."
Dean chewed n his lip for a moment before nodding. "Iron rounds, Flashlights…what else?"
"We don't know what it is."
"We know what it isn't. Salt won't work. There's a bag of iron filings in the trunk of the car."
"What, poison the pool? That will only work if it's fae."
"Then it won't hurt to try it," Dean said, sitting down to pull on his boots.
"It's not hurting anything," Sam said. "If it's been there awhile, it obviously hasn't done anything to anyone -- Bobby would have heard of that and he would have told us"
"Until now," Dean said standing up, face and jaw set.
"It hasn't done anything."
"It had you for a couple of hours!" Dean snapped back. "We're not arguing about this, Sam. Either get dressed and grab the gear or sit down and shut up." He headed outside grabbing his car keys on the way.
Sam stared at the closed door and then grabbed his own boots. Apparently, the second stage freak out had been simmering along with the water.
He didn't say a word as Dean stomped back in, just put guns and ammo in the carry-all, and checked both their flashlights before shouldering the bag. He let Dean carry the filings.
The woods were hardly quiet, but they were dark, only a sliver of moon showing and they both had to check the tree marking. The sound of running water grew louder the closer to the stream and rock surrounding it they got. Once there, Dean didn't hesitate to take his bag right to the edge of the pool, ready to dump the whole thing, before Sam grabbed his arm. "Wait."
"Not arguing, Sam," Dean said.
"I'm not, but if it's not fae, then you'll have wasted it for nothing," Sam murmured and pulled the long handled iron knife from his bag. It was impossible to keep sharp, but that wasn't its strength. He crouched by the edge of the pool, aware of Dean crowding him, ready to grab Sam if anything made a grab for Sam.
One knee on the damp stone, Sam slid about six inches of the blade into the water.
Salt for ghosts, holy water for demons, iron for fae, talismans for sorcery; he could almost hear his father repeating the simple lexicon and Dean gleefully proclaiming it all shit. Their father hadn't been amused but it made it easy for Sam to remember.
Dean's fingers closed around his shoulder as the water began to roil and bubble, not at the blade point, but toward the center. Then he was being jerked back as the thing in the water erupted upward, with a shriek that was only a few decibels below a banshee's wail.
It didn't come toward them, though, only scrambled up on the rocks on the opposite bank, dripping water and making a sound like hissing steam. Then it scrambled back, half in and half out, watching them warily, but it didn't climb out again and Sam wondered if it could even survive for very long out of the water or like a fish, would quickly start flopping and dying.
It was smaller than Sam expected, about the size of a three or four year old child. Long hair, like water grass, trailed over pale skin, the eyes overly large and the nose overly small. As far as Sam could tell, it wore nothing at all, but even without clothes, there was no determining its gender, if it even had one. The fingers were well articulated but webbed, and the toes of its feet overly long and similarly webbed. Knees and elbows bent oddly as it crouched, reminding Sam of nothing so much as the small Fowler's toads they'd seen, except far more graceful, moving fluidly between water and rocks.
"Guess that settles that," Dean said. They were both drenched, the water and air cold enough to make Sam's teeth chatter. Dean hefted the bag and the sound the creature on the rocks made shifted from a wail to a hiss. It darted out again then back, scrabbling toward the upstream side, crouching on the edge, long toes barely in the water, hands pressed to the rock, like it might launch itself at them.
"Wait." Sam said.
"Arguing."
Sam stepped in front of him and caught his arms, keeping Dean from dumping the iron into the water. "It didn't hurt me. It isn't attacking…and as far as we know, it hasn't hurt anyone else."
"We don't know what it did when you were standing in the middle of nowhere for hours. Maybe you just don't remember."
"Maybe I don't, but…it didn't have to show itself to me, Dean. I never saw it, I wouldn't have…but it hasn't tried to lure either of us into the water or do anything else. Can we just….we know the iron is bad for it. So, we know what will hurt it."
Dean's glance flickered between Sam and the creature, watching it over Sam's shoulder. "So, what do you suggest? We just leave it?"
"I don't know. I don't know what it wants…but I think it's been trying to tell me. I just don't understand what it means."
"Because of your head thing. Visions, psychic, ghost whispering b--….ability," Dean said and Sam knew he'd been about to say something else, like bullshit. "It doesn’t make you responsible for every damn thing that comes along, Sam. Let them find someone else to shoot the shit with. They need to stay the hell out of your head."
And that was the crux of it all, wasn't it? Ghosts, shades…all kinds of manifestations and incarnations. They were haunting them as much as being hunted. "This isn't a ghost. It's just a….thing."
"It's a damn fae or something like it and nothing good ever comes out their deals, Sam. You know that."
"I do know that," Sam said and twisted to stare at the creature. It was watching them, perched on a stone half submerged in the water, arms and elongated hands wrapped around bony knees. It didn't shiver as Sam did, nor did it shift, eyes with no whites watching them, but making no move otherwise.
Keeping a hand on Dean, he turned more fully. "What do you want?" he asked, addressing it directly. It lifted its head and unfolded its arms, palms flat against the rock. It blinked once at Sam then turned its head to look downstream, inching across the rock to the edge of the pool.
"What's downstream?" Dean asked, and set the bag down. He looked unconvinced.
"I don't know. I didn't get very far," Sam said.
"I'm not hiking this in the dark."
"No, but we could check it during the day."
Dean swore softly and looked back at the creature. "You stay in your damn pool," he said and then reached for the bag again. The creature hissed and scrabbled further upstream, splashing as it moved, the water shallower. Dean grinned at it, laying a fine line of iron across the stone, a darker line against the grey. It wasn't a circle and he kept it away from the water's edge, but the warning was clear.
It rose up, a thin wraith in the shadows and stared at Dean but then nodded. It took a hesitant step toward the pool and when neither Sam or Dean moved, slipped back into the water, hovering just below the surface. It moved to the downstream edge where it remained, long arms trailing in the flow, one hand rippling over the small current, like Dean did with his own hand out the car window.
They were both shivering when they reach the cabin. Dean built up the fire and Sam stripped down, coming back in with dry clothes and a blanket and urging Dean to change. The fire was sharp and bright, and made the headache that had started on the walk back flare and grind on Sam's nerves. Dean stopped shaking but he was pissed off and while Sam didn't think he'd sneak out and poison the pool, he wasn't a hundred percent sure, so he gave up on thoughts of sleep for being the target of Dean's anger and fear until Dean either did something about it or let it go.
Their father's journal has a dozen entries on water creatures from selkies to will-o-wisps, but the fae realm wasn't something any of them have dealt with that much. Sam wasn't sure if it was because the links to that realm were weaker and rarer here, in the not so new world, or if the fae just had their own set of rules and codes and interactions with humans were rare things. Too much of it was brought from the old world to the new in tokens and badges and beliefs of immigrants, but for the water and forest dwellers Sam wondered if it wasn't other paths, like the road to the summerlands, that they are wandering.
Dean dug through a bag of odds and ends he'd brought in when he got the bag of filings, fiddling with something, but Sam only leaned back against the sofa front, feeling tired but keeping himself awake if only because Dean was so far from sleepy, it felt like a tiny betrayal to leave him alone to it. There were no bars close by, Dean's venue of choice when he was wound so tight, and that was Sam's fault if it was anyone's.
In the morning they'd hike downstream and see if there was something to what the water creature was trying to tell them, but even if they found nothing, Sam thought maybe they should hit the road anyway.
This plan of Dean's was the kind of gift that Sam never quite knew what to do with, but to take and be grateful for the fact that Dean always and forever looked out for Sam first. But they seemed to find what needed to be hunted without half trying lately, and maybe it was time they both just dealt with the fact instead of trying to find a way around it. Whatever had been opened in Sam's brain through the blood of demons or the wounds of death dealt too close, he didn't know how to shut it off. It helped them more often than it hurt them, he supposed. He could deal with the headaches for the most part, and maybe if he stopped trying not to look, eventually he'd come to ignore most of what he saw, the same way he ignored a million details seen out a car window.
Dean stopped fidgeting and straightened up, holding out his hand. "Here." Terse and soft, but he was looking at Sam. Sam blinked and held out his hand, felt the weight of the thing before he saw it.
Three iron nails double crossed and bound together with catgut, the silk cord of the pendant bound to the metal with more gut. Dean was already looking down at his lap again, working on a second one. Sam didn't say anything but slipped the cord over his head and let the heavy thing rest on his breastbone. Dean snorted, but Sam swore he hadn't been looking. Dean twisted and pulled at the collar of Sam's shirt and lifted the talisman to drop it against Sam's skin. The points of the nail pricked his skin when Dean patted it in place.
"Ow." It was more protest than acknowledgment of real pain. Dean only smirked at him.
"Pussy. Bleeding heart anyway."
And like that, Dean's anger broke and slipped away. Sam slapped the back of his hand against Dean's stomach and got an equally overstated "oof" in response.
"We should see if we can get maps -- see where that stream leads."
Dean only nodded and turned back to finishing the second construction of nails and gut and silk. Sam reached into the bag and found the spool of gut and another of waxed flax, two spools of silk - one red, one black, stones and feather and bits and pieces. Dean could weave a better than average dream catcher, and a half dozen charms and similar talismans. Neither of them were entirely sure of the efficacy of any of them, but superstition was part and parcel of what they did, and luck an even bigger part. The pendant Dean wore always, spoke more to their relationship than having any inherent power that Sam knew of. He'd never asked Bobby about it, and Bobby had never commented, even when Dean showed up wearing it instead of their father.
That was a mildly notable Christmas against many that were not, the gift something Dean wore but never talked about. He guarded it jealously, but never gave indication of its worth or meaning. Sometimes Sam wondered if Dean hadn't worn it all these years as much for penance as because it was a gift. A reminder of a time when Sam was too curious and too insistent that Dean shredded what little innocence he had left out of sheer exasperation .
Dean finished his own, binding a second cord. It wouldn't be worn forever -- it was a momentary ward against whatever lurked in the water, to be worn beside the tiny bullhead but not in place of or forever with. Sam stopped him before he lifted the cord over his head, taking it from him and settling it himself with a little more care, flattening the charm before smoothing it against Dean's chest, then pulled the red spool out and quickly clipped, braided, and knotted two wrist charms for remembrance.
He'd lost a couple of hours today, and so had Dean in a different way.
Sam didn't intend to forget again and Dean held his wrist steady when Sam tied it on his arm.
He really didn't think the creature in the pool wanted to harm them, but it wanted something.
Not meaning to harm wasn't the same as not doing harm, though, and Sam needed to remember that too.
+++++
They had to drive to the county seat in Baudette to find maps that showed rivers and streams and lakes -- Minnesota had a lot of them, earning the state its moniker of the Land of 10,000 Lakes. Water was everywhere and in retrospect Sam supposed it made more sense there would be all kinds of water dwelling creatures lurking in the depths of lakes and hidden streams.
Bobby was as surprised as he possibly could be that there was anything there. Reiterating that neither he nor his buddy had ever seen or heard of it, and there had been some kind of structure on that patch of private land near the Red Lake reservation for the better part of a hundred years now -- not always occupied but for long enough periods of time and by men who understood about things in the dark for someone to have noticed something.
Which brought it back to Sam being the reason why the creature had shown itself at all. That left Dean tight-lipped and tense again, but he didn't say anything. He helped Sam find and make copies of topo maps and some older local maps, then spread them out over a table in a diner to narrow down their own location.
The stream was small, but eventually most of the streams and creeks in the area dumped into the Upper Red Lake, south of them. That meant they weren't likely to have to find a way to slip over the Canadian border to find a reason for the creature or its unspoken and mysterious request. They got back with some hours of daylight left, and decided to at least look. They didn't linger by the pool or try to draw the thing out, only headed downstream, Dean keeping track of the time and Sam of the distance.
Despite the dense forest around the cabin, it only took a couple of miles to break into an errant meadow, still bare from winter. The stream cut along the edge of it, growing slower and shallower and wider for a bit with little to hold the banks in place but winter grasses. It narrowed and deepened again further on and at five miles south they saw the first sign of other people, fencing and winter tilled land and a farmhouse that wasn't abandoned, woodsmoke from the chimney and a late model car in the drive. They'd be losing light in a couple of hours and headed back. Chances were they could drive back here and skirt the farm to pick up the stream further on, but even as they made a minor detour to find the road that had to be beyond the house, Dean spotted what would have been more of a mystery if they hadn't been wearing pedants of iron and watched the thing retreat from even the suggestion of it.
Even in a state with this much water, having it where you needed it for your dairy cows or goats was a necessity no one thought of or weighed against consequence any longer. It covered an acre or more; a large pond, with steel sluice gates to trap water in a natural hollow; one at either end. Steel wasn't the issue but they checked the cement casing on either side, not surprised to find remnants of older gates, of iron and stone resting in the water, rebar in the cement probably.
They had no way to remove the blockage if that was the problem, short of blasting it free, somehow Sam was pretty sure the farm owners would object to that.
It was dark when they got back, requiring more caution in picking their way through the last of the woods. This time, coming across the rocky expanse that edged the pool was more welcome, if only because it made their footing slightly less treacherous.
They stared at the reflection of moonlight and early stars until the creature showed itself, head and bony shoulders above the water. It looked expectant, even hopeful, and surprisingly it was Dean who crouched down, just past the still-present line of iron. "There's a gate…" he said and dropped his head. If there were more light Sam was pretty sure there would be a flush on his face.
The creature didn't seem to understand and only stared until Dean rubbed the back of his neck and shook his head. Its expression didn't change much but the despair was obvious, heavy in the air like moisture before a storm. One thin hand stretched out, not quite touching the tip of Dean's boot and then it retreated, sinking back into the water. It didn't show again and Dean finally rose, brushing aside some of the filings to break the line.
It was a little over ten miles from the pond here to the edge of the Upper Red Lake, and Sam tracked the maps and found the path they'd traveled, that single farm was the only direct barrier he could find.
It wanted to go downstream and Sam didn't know why, and when the whispers started up that night they sounded different, more like dripping water and an underlying hush than the gurgle of a narrow stream; water falling off stone, waves lapping against a shore.
Maybe there were others like it in the lake and this one remained, or maybe like a salmon it need to spawn in an environment different than the one it dwelled in. Maybe it was bored or tired or wanted someplace to die. He lay in bed with Dean's arm tight around his chest and tried to listen, but all he could hear was the soft sound of Dean's breathing and the resonant thump of his heart.
"Can you still hear it?" Dean asked quietly because neither of them was sleeping.
"Just the water."
"There's no way to move those gates."
"I know. Thanks for trying."
Dean sighed and rolled away and Sam let him get away with it for a couple of minutes before rolling over too. "We can't save everyone -- or everything, right?"
"Yeah. Especially since we don't know if it wants to be saved or should be." Dean's obstinacy wasn't actually from doubt this time -- or from conviction. Mostly it was disappointment at not being able to help and not just for the thing in the water.
Sam closed his hand over the tangled amulets on Dean's chest and tried to pretend the drip of water he heard wasn't tears falling from a creature who didn't know how to weep.
+++++
Continued part three
by Maygra
Dean/Sam. NC17. More or less follows Dead Man's Curve. (For Allie who wanted 15 weeks later.)
Part of the Open Road Series of loosely affiliated stories: (Reminders of Echoes, Midnight at the Majestic, and Land of Trembling Earth).
Many thanks to demrepic and ruby_jelly for the beta,
The characters and situations portrayed here are not mine, they belong to the CW. This is a fan authored work and no profit is being made. Please do not link to this story without appropriate warnings. Please do not archive this story without my permission.
(20,604 words)
Despite renewed warmth in the house, neither of them were inclined to head back to bed. Dean retrieved a shotgun loaded with salt from the weapons carry and laid it cracked open on the low coffee table. They didn't bother with the lights, letting the fire provide illumination, coffee bubbled in the percolator again and Dean settled into work the crossword puzzle from the back of some magazine he'd picked up. Sam cracked the new spine on a paperback and tilted it toward the light to read, but couldn't focus enough to even begin to grasp plot or care about the characters. He settled for sorting the piles further by genre then by author, staring at the cover art on a few, and playing a familiar game of seeing if he could guess the storyline as described on the back blurb by art alone.
"What did it sound like?" Dean asked nearly an hour later.
"Just voices. Talking."
"How many voices?"
That was a better question and Sam had to examine the faint adrenaline-laced memories for details. It was similar to the way Dean drew out details from Sam's visions, parsing out pertinent facts from pain -- although at least with this latest thing, there had been no pain. "Three, I think."
"Male or female?"
Harder still, the tones low and soft and offering no clue. The cadence had been intense but not aggressive. He couldn’t find an answer to Dean's question or even offer an educated guess.
Bed or not, Sam did drift a little, woke and returned when Dean dropped a light blanket over him and a cushion from the worn sofa for himself, settling shoulder and hip to Sam's back. What felt like normal dreams played out behind Sam's closed eyes, of tumbling water and wind tossed trees, the crunch of fresh snow and the lacing of ice against shallow riverbanks. He thought he heard the rattle of chimes and the clacking of bones but none of it was alarming. When Sam came out of his drowse again it was lighter outside and Dean was moving quietly in the kitchen, trying not to wake him as he tapped utensils against metal bowls, and heavy plates against the counter.
They spent the morning after breakfast with light chores, recaulking the window panes and sealing them, then clearing loose brush from around the cabin's foundation. Dean cranked up the Impala and rolled the windows down, letting music blast out of the speakers and scaring the wildlife for a mile. Sam figured Dean's willingness to stay here would last only as long as the list of chores or the food lasted, an observation that neither slowed nor quickened his own efforts. The painting alone would take them a few days, shoveling the pile of fresh gravel under the propane tank and around the foundation another two and the size of the pile explained some of the deeper ruts in the road in. That was the kind of back-breaking work Sam didn't look forward to, but could see the necessity for.
Sometime after lunch, Dean turned his attention to the car, not shy about using the reservoir to give her a good wash and putting attention into the detail like he did on his guns. Sam grabbed up a bottle of water and couple of apples, and voiced his intention of following one of the many trails that led away from the cabin -- overgrown but still visible. An hour or so, less than two, he promised and Dean checked his watch before returning to his waxing, lips compressed but offering no other protest. He was wary of letting Sam too far out of his sight -- a truth that had been with Sam as long as he could remember. He checked his own watch and set the small alarm to remind him when he was a half hour out. That seemed to ease Dean's expression and Sam headed off on the trail to avoid showing Dean either aggravation or amusement.
The trail was mostly a straight shot, bending only slightly around larger trees, and actually well marked with faded red paint every 100 yards or so. It meant the path probably actually led to something or somewhere -- Sam was betting on a blind or even a clearing for dressing kills. The cabin was meant for hunters of the big game kind, although all Sam had seen thus far were rabbits.
He was surprised when the path faltered and dumped onto a flat of rock and shale and winter-gray scrub that gave way to a slow-moving stream. Just at that point the stream opened into a pool, flanked by rock on either bank and too wide for Sam to cross without finding a narrower neck of the stream. The pool itself was opaque by virtue of reflecting the blue sky above, impossible to gauge the depth of by sight alone. A broken branch the length of Sam's arm sank under the water, but a second, not quite as tall as Sam, hit bottom and stirred muck and leaves up to the surface, interrupting the mirrored stillness. The water was ice cold, but a couple of sheered rounds of trunk indicated that their unnamed host may well have chose the place as much for the nearby swimming hole as for the isolation.
A hundred yard down stream the stream picked up speed again, tumbling and gurgling across rocks and cutting into the banks on either side. The woods closed in around it again as the land rose slightly and Sam's watch chirped as he hit a point where a missed stepped would send him over a drop of about five feet or so. There was deer-sign here, and fox, animals tracking the water's edge on their way to the pool.
He headed back, eyes on the opposite bank, wondering if there was a place to cross further upstream.
The mud he'd stirred up had settled by the time he returned, the highly reflective surface almost hypnotizing. He finished his bottle of water and dipped the plastic in, the water clear with little sediment. He wasn't usually so incautious as to drink untested water -- no idea where the stream sourced from, but it was likely the water was the same water in the well. It was bitingly cold, icy to the point of giving him a momentary brain-freeze that made him tense his jaw and squeeze his eyes shut.
When he opened them again the clearing was all in shadow, a solid bank of clouds obscuring the sun, and everything sounded muted to his ears. The pool went from bright and shining to dark and slightly disorienting, the way the darker cloud layer gave the impression of the water boiling just under the surface. It was a trick of shadow and light and the tannin in the water that had settled at the bottom, but Sam stumbled backward when one of the cloud shapes seemed to morph into an almost recognizable face of darkened eyes and streaming hair, lips parted as if to speak. Nothing broke the surface of the water and Sam's heart was pounding as he stared; that face staring back up at him. Then he had to blink and squeeze his eyes shut when the sun emerged, glaring off the water like a camera flash and the face vanished like it had never been. He backed up, checking the pool and the sky, and then tensing when another cloud bank moved in and shuttered the sun away once more.
He wanted it to be clouds.
He wasn't surprised when it wasn't.
He came no closer to the water's edge on seeing the face again, and the face in the water showed no signs of emerging from the pool. There was more than a face though; pale arms stretched out just under the surface, seeming content to observe Sam as he observed his watery visitor. Hard to tell if it was male or female despite the long hair. The rest of the body, if there was one, was obscured in the pool's depth and the still present reflections of clouds moving. The hands didn't beckon him closer and the lips remained parted, curved in what might be a smile or might simply be a distortion of the water.
Legends of Nixies and Nymphs and Kelpies repeated themselves as he stared, but he felt no compulsion beyond curiosity to get closer to the water or do anything else except want to know what it was.
The sun eased out again and the thing sank, although this was a gradual drop, the pale shape of it visible beneath the water but far more indistinct. And then Sam did step closer, wondering if it were the sunlight that drove it away or simple boredom. He remained out of grabbing reach, but the shape in the water moved further toward the center, away from him, eyeing him suspiciously.
"Sam?" Dean's voice startled him but not enough to make him fall or stumble or even to turn around and put his back to the water. Instead he rose and backed up before angling toward Dean, but still able to keep an eye on the pool.
"There's something in the water," Sam said and Dean drew up close, and drew his gun. Sam laid a hand on his wrist. "It hasn't tried anything, hasn't come out. It's just watching."
"If it's watching from the water that can't be good." Dean was tense from more than just Sam's words. "Where the hell have you been?"
"Here…I mean I walked downstream, but then came back."
"You've been gone for nearly four hours. I was heading back to get a pack and flashlights and call Bobby to haul his ass out here."
"I haven't--" Sam started to say and glanced at his watch. More time had passed than he'd expected, and he stared at it, trying to fill in the gaps and came up with nothing.
The sun, for all that he'd been watching it, had definitely shifted angles and he'd missed it in his stare down with the thing in the water. He was suddenly aware of the ache in his legs and his feet from standing in once place for so long. "I've been here, right here the whole time."
"I've been past this pool three times and you weren't here. Nothing happened?" Dean asked, drawing him back along the trail, checking over his shoulder as if expecting something to emerge from the water.
"Nothing. I stared at it, it stared at me. I was trying to figure out what it is."
"Did it say anything?"
Sam shook his head, glad when Dean's fingers clenched in the back of his shirt. "Nothing. I only saw it when the sun went behind the clouds."
"Jesus…" Dean said and looked up. The sky was cloudless, open and bright blue, for miles from the vista of the clearing, not even faint wisps of vapor. "Tell me -- everything you did -- and keep walking," he said nudging Sam forward..
Sam did, from the walk and the view where the stream undercut the bank, the paw and hoof prints he'd seen, deer spoor…all the way back, Dean needling him for details however minute…Sam's throat felt a dry and he lifted the bottle, then stopped. "I drank the water," he said.
"What?"
"I drank the water. Before I saw anything…"
Dean stared at the bottle. It was clear, the thinnest bit of sediment swirling in the bottom from Sam jostling it as they walked. "Don't drink any more," he said and took the bottle from Sam, offering his own. Dean didn't toss it or empty it though. "I'm gonna kill Bobby," he said as the cabin drew into view. "He swore there was nothing out here."
"Maybe he didn't know." Sam was ready for a hot shower and to get off his feet.
"He should have," Dean said, still angry and he hadn't let go of Sam's shirt, didn't until they reached the two steps up and through the back door.
"It didn't do anything."
"Yeah?" Dean was openly skeptical. "You disappeared for at least a couple of hours, Sam. Maybe you just don't remember." Then he was tugging at Sam's shirt, peeling the flannel off and checking Sam's arms, his hands. Checking him all over.
"What are you looking for?"
"Hell if I know -- marks, bites, tattoos -- something stamped on your ass saying something else has decided to lay claim to you," Dean said and tugged his T-shirt. His voice was steady, low and pissed off, and Sam through about arguing but Dean was in phase one of a freak out and Sam would rather he didn't escalate to phase two. He peeled his T-shirt off, feeling it stick slightly and his arms ached -- sweat and stillness. The fact that he'd apparently lost a couple of hours should be freaking him out as much as Dean, and he couldn't really say why it wasn't. The stare down, like the voices in the night -- neither of them had felt threatening. Not beguiling either, just there.
"I need a shower."
"In a minute." Dean was behind him, fingers brushing lightly over Sam's back and along his spine, checking under his armpits even to pushing the hair there aside. Sam felt like he was being groomed by a chimpanzee. He unfastened his belt and opened his jeans, but had to bend over to unlace his boots.
"Shower now. Strip down and come with me and you can keep checking while I get the sweat off," Sam said and didn't add to ease the aches, because Dean apparently had enough to worry about.
Dean's mouth was set again and he glared but pulled off his own shirt and then it was all, 'hurry up' and 'now, Sam'.
Dean didn't give up his examination and Sam let him check the bottoms of his feet while they waited for the hot water to start flowing. Then it was more of the same, and Sam almost started laughing at the thought of Dean on his knees in front of Sam's crotch and touching him without actually thinking about sex was the second weirdest thing that had happened to him. The same was true when he turned Sam around to face the showerhead and used the flats of both hands to part Sam's ass cheeks and check the crease. Hands in Sam's wet hair had all the sexiness of Dean checking for head lice, the same when his fingers went into Sam's mouth, checking the inside of his lips and his gums and under his tongue. He turned Sam again to check the nape of his neck, fingers slick and Sam closed his eyes to keep the water out of them -- then pushed back.
"It's the same water," he said.
"What water?"
"Here. In the reservoir. I mean, it's possible the well is fed from the same water source."
Dean's fingers tightened on the nape of his neck then eased. "Great. Now maybe we'll both be seeing your freaky water faery when I make spaghetti."
"Or it's got nothing to do with the water -- drinking it, I mean -- at all. Wait. You're making spaghetti?" Sam loved Dean's spaghetti. He always started with a jar, but added something to it. He refused to tell Sam what he did.
Dean handed him a wet washcloth and the soap. "Get clean." He stepped out of the shower.
Sam hurried, aware that there was a certain lethargy that was leaving him -- something he hadn't noticed. When he dried off and changed into dry clothes, he found Dean on the couch, a beer in hand. There was a stewpot of water coming to a boil on the stove. Sam dropped down beside him and stole his beer. Dean let him have it. He looked less freaked out but he was still simmering underneath. Sam nudged him and passed the beer back. "I'm fine. I'm sorry you were worried."
Dean rolled his eyes and took the beer, finishing off the last half of the bottle and then getting up to drop the empty in the trash and check the water on the stove.
Sam sighed -- quietly -- and got up to follow him. "You want garlic bread?" he asked and Dean only grunted. Sam got the bread loaf and made a pan of foil, buttering each slice of bread before cutting it in half, then being generous with the garlic salt and parmesan cheese. They didn't have any dried parsley, but there was oregano and he hesitated with the plastic container, vividly recalling doing this with Jessica. They'd used actual French bread, Jess kind of appalled at the idea of using bagged, sliced white bread. She'd been the one to teach him to use the herbs in addition to the salt and cheese, had insisted on olive oil rather than margarine. They'd compromised on actual butter.
It took him a moment to realize that the voice in his head he was hearing wasn't Jessica's but the same indistinct whispers, only this time with the lights on and Dean wide awake beside him. Sam touched his arm lightly to get his attention, and turned to face the wider room. "Voices again," he said softly and Dean jerked around, eyes narrowing as he tried to catch sight of or hear anything in the room. Dean cut the heat under the almost boiling water. As before, the voices neither diminished nor rose in volume. They murmured along, different tones pitching over each other. It sounded more familiar though and Sam struggled to think why.
The water settled in the pot and the metal pinged as it cooled.
Dean edged toward the front door, eyes on Sam when he opened it. The voices drained away, like water over rocks in the stream. "It's the water," Sam said. It was. The sound of water in the creek as it raced downstream only here it was contained and muffled, threading through earth and concrete and the wood of the flooring. He didn't know why opening the door made a difference but it did. Like the water was trapped but still flowing, as impossible as that seemed.
"Gone again?"
Sam nodded. "We should check the pool."
Dean chewed n his lip for a moment before nodding. "Iron rounds, Flashlights…what else?"
"We don't know what it is."
"We know what it isn't. Salt won't work. There's a bag of iron filings in the trunk of the car."
"What, poison the pool? That will only work if it's fae."
"Then it won't hurt to try it," Dean said, sitting down to pull on his boots.
"It's not hurting anything," Sam said. "If it's been there awhile, it obviously hasn't done anything to anyone -- Bobby would have heard of that and he would have told us"
"Until now," Dean said standing up, face and jaw set.
"It hasn't done anything."
"It had you for a couple of hours!" Dean snapped back. "We're not arguing about this, Sam. Either get dressed and grab the gear or sit down and shut up." He headed outside grabbing his car keys on the way.
Sam stared at the closed door and then grabbed his own boots. Apparently, the second stage freak out had been simmering along with the water.
He didn't say a word as Dean stomped back in, just put guns and ammo in the carry-all, and checked both their flashlights before shouldering the bag. He let Dean carry the filings.
The woods were hardly quiet, but they were dark, only a sliver of moon showing and they both had to check the tree marking. The sound of running water grew louder the closer to the stream and rock surrounding it they got. Once there, Dean didn't hesitate to take his bag right to the edge of the pool, ready to dump the whole thing, before Sam grabbed his arm. "Wait."
"Not arguing, Sam," Dean said.
"I'm not, but if it's not fae, then you'll have wasted it for nothing," Sam murmured and pulled the long handled iron knife from his bag. It was impossible to keep sharp, but that wasn't its strength. He crouched by the edge of the pool, aware of Dean crowding him, ready to grab Sam if anything made a grab for Sam.
One knee on the damp stone, Sam slid about six inches of the blade into the water.
Salt for ghosts, holy water for demons, iron for fae, talismans for sorcery; he could almost hear his father repeating the simple lexicon and Dean gleefully proclaiming it all shit. Their father hadn't been amused but it made it easy for Sam to remember.
Dean's fingers closed around his shoulder as the water began to roil and bubble, not at the blade point, but toward the center. Then he was being jerked back as the thing in the water erupted upward, with a shriek that was only a few decibels below a banshee's wail.
It didn't come toward them, though, only scrambled up on the rocks on the opposite bank, dripping water and making a sound like hissing steam. Then it scrambled back, half in and half out, watching them warily, but it didn't climb out again and Sam wondered if it could even survive for very long out of the water or like a fish, would quickly start flopping and dying.
It was smaller than Sam expected, about the size of a three or four year old child. Long hair, like water grass, trailed over pale skin, the eyes overly large and the nose overly small. As far as Sam could tell, it wore nothing at all, but even without clothes, there was no determining its gender, if it even had one. The fingers were well articulated but webbed, and the toes of its feet overly long and similarly webbed. Knees and elbows bent oddly as it crouched, reminding Sam of nothing so much as the small Fowler's toads they'd seen, except far more graceful, moving fluidly between water and rocks.
"Guess that settles that," Dean said. They were both drenched, the water and air cold enough to make Sam's teeth chatter. Dean hefted the bag and the sound the creature on the rocks made shifted from a wail to a hiss. It darted out again then back, scrabbling toward the upstream side, crouching on the edge, long toes barely in the water, hands pressed to the rock, like it might launch itself at them.
"Wait." Sam said.
"Arguing."
Sam stepped in front of him and caught his arms, keeping Dean from dumping the iron into the water. "It didn't hurt me. It isn't attacking…and as far as we know, it hasn't hurt anyone else."
"We don't know what it did when you were standing in the middle of nowhere for hours. Maybe you just don't remember."
"Maybe I don't, but…it didn't have to show itself to me, Dean. I never saw it, I wouldn't have…but it hasn't tried to lure either of us into the water or do anything else. Can we just….we know the iron is bad for it. So, we know what will hurt it."
Dean's glance flickered between Sam and the creature, watching it over Sam's shoulder. "So, what do you suggest? We just leave it?"
"I don't know. I don't know what it wants…but I think it's been trying to tell me. I just don't understand what it means."
"Because of your head thing. Visions, psychic, ghost whispering b--….ability," Dean said and Sam knew he'd been about to say something else, like bullshit. "It doesn’t make you responsible for every damn thing that comes along, Sam. Let them find someone else to shoot the shit with. They need to stay the hell out of your head."
And that was the crux of it all, wasn't it? Ghosts, shades…all kinds of manifestations and incarnations. They were haunting them as much as being hunted. "This isn't a ghost. It's just a….thing."
"It's a damn fae or something like it and nothing good ever comes out their deals, Sam. You know that."
"I do know that," Sam said and twisted to stare at the creature. It was watching them, perched on a stone half submerged in the water, arms and elongated hands wrapped around bony knees. It didn't shiver as Sam did, nor did it shift, eyes with no whites watching them, but making no move otherwise.
Keeping a hand on Dean, he turned more fully. "What do you want?" he asked, addressing it directly. It lifted its head and unfolded its arms, palms flat against the rock. It blinked once at Sam then turned its head to look downstream, inching across the rock to the edge of the pool.
"What's downstream?" Dean asked, and set the bag down. He looked unconvinced.
"I don't know. I didn't get very far," Sam said.
"I'm not hiking this in the dark."
"No, but we could check it during the day."
Dean swore softly and looked back at the creature. "You stay in your damn pool," he said and then reached for the bag again. The creature hissed and scrabbled further upstream, splashing as it moved, the water shallower. Dean grinned at it, laying a fine line of iron across the stone, a darker line against the grey. It wasn't a circle and he kept it away from the water's edge, but the warning was clear.
It rose up, a thin wraith in the shadows and stared at Dean but then nodded. It took a hesitant step toward the pool and when neither Sam or Dean moved, slipped back into the water, hovering just below the surface. It moved to the downstream edge where it remained, long arms trailing in the flow, one hand rippling over the small current, like Dean did with his own hand out the car window.
They were both shivering when they reach the cabin. Dean built up the fire and Sam stripped down, coming back in with dry clothes and a blanket and urging Dean to change. The fire was sharp and bright, and made the headache that had started on the walk back flare and grind on Sam's nerves. Dean stopped shaking but he was pissed off and while Sam didn't think he'd sneak out and poison the pool, he wasn't a hundred percent sure, so he gave up on thoughts of sleep for being the target of Dean's anger and fear until Dean either did something about it or let it go.
Their father's journal has a dozen entries on water creatures from selkies to will-o-wisps, but the fae realm wasn't something any of them have dealt with that much. Sam wasn't sure if it was because the links to that realm were weaker and rarer here, in the not so new world, or if the fae just had their own set of rules and codes and interactions with humans were rare things. Too much of it was brought from the old world to the new in tokens and badges and beliefs of immigrants, but for the water and forest dwellers Sam wondered if it wasn't other paths, like the road to the summerlands, that they are wandering.
Dean dug through a bag of odds and ends he'd brought in when he got the bag of filings, fiddling with something, but Sam only leaned back against the sofa front, feeling tired but keeping himself awake if only because Dean was so far from sleepy, it felt like a tiny betrayal to leave him alone to it. There were no bars close by, Dean's venue of choice when he was wound so tight, and that was Sam's fault if it was anyone's.
In the morning they'd hike downstream and see if there was something to what the water creature was trying to tell them, but even if they found nothing, Sam thought maybe they should hit the road anyway.
This plan of Dean's was the kind of gift that Sam never quite knew what to do with, but to take and be grateful for the fact that Dean always and forever looked out for Sam first. But they seemed to find what needed to be hunted without half trying lately, and maybe it was time they both just dealt with the fact instead of trying to find a way around it. Whatever had been opened in Sam's brain through the blood of demons or the wounds of death dealt too close, he didn't know how to shut it off. It helped them more often than it hurt them, he supposed. He could deal with the headaches for the most part, and maybe if he stopped trying not to look, eventually he'd come to ignore most of what he saw, the same way he ignored a million details seen out a car window.
Dean stopped fidgeting and straightened up, holding out his hand. "Here." Terse and soft, but he was looking at Sam. Sam blinked and held out his hand, felt the weight of the thing before he saw it.
Three iron nails double crossed and bound together with catgut, the silk cord of the pendant bound to the metal with more gut. Dean was already looking down at his lap again, working on a second one. Sam didn't say anything but slipped the cord over his head and let the heavy thing rest on his breastbone. Dean snorted, but Sam swore he hadn't been looking. Dean twisted and pulled at the collar of Sam's shirt and lifted the talisman to drop it against Sam's skin. The points of the nail pricked his skin when Dean patted it in place.
"Ow." It was more protest than acknowledgment of real pain. Dean only smirked at him.
"Pussy. Bleeding heart anyway."
And like that, Dean's anger broke and slipped away. Sam slapped the back of his hand against Dean's stomach and got an equally overstated "oof" in response.
"We should see if we can get maps -- see where that stream leads."
Dean only nodded and turned back to finishing the second construction of nails and gut and silk. Sam reached into the bag and found the spool of gut and another of waxed flax, two spools of silk - one red, one black, stones and feather and bits and pieces. Dean could weave a better than average dream catcher, and a half dozen charms and similar talismans. Neither of them were entirely sure of the efficacy of any of them, but superstition was part and parcel of what they did, and luck an even bigger part. The pendant Dean wore always, spoke more to their relationship than having any inherent power that Sam knew of. He'd never asked Bobby about it, and Bobby had never commented, even when Dean showed up wearing it instead of their father.
That was a mildly notable Christmas against many that were not, the gift something Dean wore but never talked about. He guarded it jealously, but never gave indication of its worth or meaning. Sometimes Sam wondered if Dean hadn't worn it all these years as much for penance as because it was a gift. A reminder of a time when Sam was too curious and too insistent that Dean shredded what little innocence he had left out of sheer exasperation .
Dean finished his own, binding a second cord. It wouldn't be worn forever -- it was a momentary ward against whatever lurked in the water, to be worn beside the tiny bullhead but not in place of or forever with. Sam stopped him before he lifted the cord over his head, taking it from him and settling it himself with a little more care, flattening the charm before smoothing it against Dean's chest, then pulled the red spool out and quickly clipped, braided, and knotted two wrist charms for remembrance.
He'd lost a couple of hours today, and so had Dean in a different way.
Sam didn't intend to forget again and Dean held his wrist steady when Sam tied it on his arm.
He really didn't think the creature in the pool wanted to harm them, but it wanted something.
Not meaning to harm wasn't the same as not doing harm, though, and Sam needed to remember that too.
+++++
They had to drive to the county seat in Baudette to find maps that showed rivers and streams and lakes -- Minnesota had a lot of them, earning the state its moniker of the Land of 10,000 Lakes. Water was everywhere and in retrospect Sam supposed it made more sense there would be all kinds of water dwelling creatures lurking in the depths of lakes and hidden streams.
Bobby was as surprised as he possibly could be that there was anything there. Reiterating that neither he nor his buddy had ever seen or heard of it, and there had been some kind of structure on that patch of private land near the Red Lake reservation for the better part of a hundred years now -- not always occupied but for long enough periods of time and by men who understood about things in the dark for someone to have noticed something.
Which brought it back to Sam being the reason why the creature had shown itself at all. That left Dean tight-lipped and tense again, but he didn't say anything. He helped Sam find and make copies of topo maps and some older local maps, then spread them out over a table in a diner to narrow down their own location.
The stream was small, but eventually most of the streams and creeks in the area dumped into the Upper Red Lake, south of them. That meant they weren't likely to have to find a way to slip over the Canadian border to find a reason for the creature or its unspoken and mysterious request. They got back with some hours of daylight left, and decided to at least look. They didn't linger by the pool or try to draw the thing out, only headed downstream, Dean keeping track of the time and Sam of the distance.
Despite the dense forest around the cabin, it only took a couple of miles to break into an errant meadow, still bare from winter. The stream cut along the edge of it, growing slower and shallower and wider for a bit with little to hold the banks in place but winter grasses. It narrowed and deepened again further on and at five miles south they saw the first sign of other people, fencing and winter tilled land and a farmhouse that wasn't abandoned, woodsmoke from the chimney and a late model car in the drive. They'd be losing light in a couple of hours and headed back. Chances were they could drive back here and skirt the farm to pick up the stream further on, but even as they made a minor detour to find the road that had to be beyond the house, Dean spotted what would have been more of a mystery if they hadn't been wearing pedants of iron and watched the thing retreat from even the suggestion of it.
Even in a state with this much water, having it where you needed it for your dairy cows or goats was a necessity no one thought of or weighed against consequence any longer. It covered an acre or more; a large pond, with steel sluice gates to trap water in a natural hollow; one at either end. Steel wasn't the issue but they checked the cement casing on either side, not surprised to find remnants of older gates, of iron and stone resting in the water, rebar in the cement probably.
They had no way to remove the blockage if that was the problem, short of blasting it free, somehow Sam was pretty sure the farm owners would object to that.
It was dark when they got back, requiring more caution in picking their way through the last of the woods. This time, coming across the rocky expanse that edged the pool was more welcome, if only because it made their footing slightly less treacherous.
They stared at the reflection of moonlight and early stars until the creature showed itself, head and bony shoulders above the water. It looked expectant, even hopeful, and surprisingly it was Dean who crouched down, just past the still-present line of iron. "There's a gate…" he said and dropped his head. If there were more light Sam was pretty sure there would be a flush on his face.
The creature didn't seem to understand and only stared until Dean rubbed the back of his neck and shook his head. Its expression didn't change much but the despair was obvious, heavy in the air like moisture before a storm. One thin hand stretched out, not quite touching the tip of Dean's boot and then it retreated, sinking back into the water. It didn't show again and Dean finally rose, brushing aside some of the filings to break the line.
It was a little over ten miles from the pond here to the edge of the Upper Red Lake, and Sam tracked the maps and found the path they'd traveled, that single farm was the only direct barrier he could find.
It wanted to go downstream and Sam didn't know why, and when the whispers started up that night they sounded different, more like dripping water and an underlying hush than the gurgle of a narrow stream; water falling off stone, waves lapping against a shore.
Maybe there were others like it in the lake and this one remained, or maybe like a salmon it need to spawn in an environment different than the one it dwelled in. Maybe it was bored or tired or wanted someplace to die. He lay in bed with Dean's arm tight around his chest and tried to listen, but all he could hear was the soft sound of Dean's breathing and the resonant thump of his heart.
"Can you still hear it?" Dean asked quietly because neither of them was sleeping.
"Just the water."
"There's no way to move those gates."
"I know. Thanks for trying."
Dean sighed and rolled away and Sam let him get away with it for a couple of minutes before rolling over too. "We can't save everyone -- or everything, right?"
"Yeah. Especially since we don't know if it wants to be saved or should be." Dean's obstinacy wasn't actually from doubt this time -- or from conviction. Mostly it was disappointment at not being able to help and not just for the thing in the water.
Sam closed his hand over the tangled amulets on Dean's chest and tried to pretend the drip of water he heard wasn't tears falling from a creature who didn't know how to weep.
+++++
Continued part three