The Witch and the Wolfen, Sam/Dean, 1/10
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Master Post | Prologue + Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5
Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 + Epilogue || ART
Prologue - The End
The cold, silent journey home, Dean’s body wrapped in a blanket. So alone, so still.
Dean’s body on the pyre burning like a Viking warrior of old.
Smoke in his eyes.
Standing by the cooling ashes, hollowed out and empty.
Returning to the Bunker, but not home. Home was Dean. Dean was gone. Dean was a ghost lingering in his heart.
Wandering the corridors wrapped in grief and loneliness, cursing his name. He didn’t need a hero, he needed his lover back.
Walls closing in.
Grief like a stone on his heart.
Climbing into the Impala alone. Time stretching out, a long endless road of loneliness.
The last Winchester.
Chapter 1 - The Book of Dean
Dean swaggered into the bar around noon. It was dark inside, all but the smallest windows boarded up against the wraith storm raging outside. Through the smokey haze of the oil lamps, he could see that Roxy’s was already packed, both with customers here to see the witch and onlookers here to watch the spectacle.
He was here for the witch as well, but he wasn’t rushing to get in any line; he was here for the long haul. He managed to find a table in the back. He nodded his head companionably at the other patrons sitting around him as he pulled out a chair. He dropped his saddlebag on the floor beside his table and took off his Stetson and greatcoat. A pretty young waitress was by his side in a flash, flirting as she took his order.
The old pot belly stove in the room was belting out the heat. Dean leaned back in his chair, and basked in the warmth. He glanced outside through a thin slit in the boards. The wind and other things still howling through the town showed no signs of letting up. He’d gotten here on the front wave of a wraith storm over a day ago, monsters nipping at his heels, ghosts rushing toward him. mouths open, ready to devour his soul if not for his shielding. Forced to enter the town in human form he could barely stay ahead of the storm. If he hadn’t pushed himself he could have ended up another sucked-out husk on the side of the road, or worse. As he’d approached the bar he’d glanced back and seen a man on the street behind him, also making a mad dash for Roxy’s front doors. Dean stretched out his hand to take the man under his shielding, but within seconds two wraiths had scooped him up off the ground and ripped him to pieces in midair, their yawing mouths sucking his essence from his torn body with glee. His screams were lost to even Dean’s sensitive hearing over the roar of the storm.
He pounded like a madman against Roxy’s doors as wraiths battered against his shielding, he counted the seconds until the door was dragged open enough for him to squeeze inside. Three men worked to push the door closed, a fourth standing at the ready with a shotgun full of blessed birdshot in case a wraith forced its way in. Exhausted, he’d paid precious coin to sleep in the barn connected by a warded tunnel to the bar, grateful for its relative safety. He’d slept a full twenty-four hours.
He remembered a time when he and Dad tried to escape a different storm. “Dean, we’ve got to find shelter.” Dean had nodded his great furry head and lengthened his stride as his dad hung on for dear life. By sheer luck, his dad had noticed a partially collapsed house through the snow. They made a run for it, wraiths battering at Dean’s shields.
They shoved through the battered front door wedging it closed behing them. Dean shifted and helped settle his ailing father into his sleeping bag before setting up camp. “I’m okay, son.” His father looked into Dean’s eyes, a fond look on his face, his thin hand on Dean’s cheek. Dean hated it, hated that thanks to Lucifer, the wraiths were always on their tail, hated that he could barely keep his father safe. He knew they were both wasting away slowly. No time to hunt or rest, running on the few supplies they had left. Dean set wards around the home’s interior. Luckily the collapsed roof was mostly intact, although you had to hunch over to move in the space, but the chimney worked and he’d be able to serve his dad a hot meal.
“Take a nap, Dad. I’ll call you when dinner’s ready.”
Dean’s attention was jerked back to the present as the wraiths let loose a particularly violent blast that pummeled the walls of the building like fists, knocking dust from the rafters and making the salt lines under the windows shiver. Everyone knew the only sane thing to do was hunker down, ward yourself as best you could, and shelter in place until the danger was past. Storm like this, visibility would be next to zero outside with the snow and the wind whipping through the streets, not to mention the supernatural dangers.
Yet in spite of all that people had somehow managed to make their way here. They had been lined up inside the bar for hours, for him - the witch. Waiting to see him, to get his help, find their cure, or beg for merciful release. Many too poor even to afford a room. Most like him, renting space in the stable beside the bar to bed down for the night.
Not many folks came to Lawrence, but every two months when the spellcaster came to town, well, then things changed. Dean knew from his last visit here that the locals would watch and drink themselves stupid, and Roxy would let them sleep in their chairs until Dean moved on and the storm soon after.
Fifty-odd years ago now, when the angels left heaven to battle the demons, millions of humans were caught in the crossfire and died. With the death of all the angels there was no one to run heaven anymore, leaving the ghosts of those dislocated souls to wander the earth. As time went on many of these souls grew bitter and twisted and turned into wraiths, raging and railing against their fate. A storm formed when masses of these dissatisfied specters joined together. Like sirens of old they would call to the living, trying to tempt them out of their homes. Anything caught unprotected outside would be sucked dry of their life essence, then torn apart. As his Dad used to say, “It’s not the wind, Dean, it’s what’s in the wind.”
Thoughts of his dad made Dean’s heart hurt. John Winchester had been a young mechanic before the Fall. Then, when the angels fell and war spilled out in the streets, his parents had tried to keep their family safe. Mom had come from a hunter family and warded the school as best she could. While Dad used all his mechanical knowledge to build them a demon-proof space in the basement of an old school. Things had gone pretty well for a lot of years, too. Mom did all the hunting and trapping, while Dad used the steel lathes in the school’s shop to repair and rebuild guns.
Growing up, Dean remembered the line of hunters coming to their door to get their equipment repaired or trade for bullets. Dean would watch for hours as his dad worked metal from solid bars into useable parts, and would work at a gun until it was like new. One of the first chores his dad had him do was load bullets. First shot shells, then later, real ammo.
Mom would come home covered in snow with Buck, their golden retriever, hauling fresh meat and pelts for her. They’d all carry her most recent haul downstairs, and sometimes Dad would cook them up Dean’s most favorite food, grilled cheeses in front of the fire, using 20-year-old processed cheese he’d traded for…
Better days.
Taking a sip from his warm beer Dean watched for his first glimpse of the witch. The man plied his trade from a storage room behind the bar. As if on cue the beaded curtain leading to the back parted, and the witch and his latest patient exited the room. The ragged line of people waiting to see him stilled, the air thrumming with pent-up curiosity as they craned their necks to glimpse the next miracle, the next cure. Dean tensed unconsciously, leaning forward in his chair in anticipation.
It surprised him yet again at how big the witch was, taller than most, lean and broad-shouldered with long chestnut hair. In spite of his intimidating sized, the witch had an ethereal, otherworldly aura about him, more than the exotic green silk robe he wore would account for. He towered over just about everyone in the room but especially his latest patient, a tiny, elderly woman with steel grey hair and cold steel on her hip. Moving with unconscious grace, his hand pressed comfortingly on the small of the woman’s back he squired her out. The lamplight caught the long pale line of his neck and firm angular lines of his face as he leaned down to listen to something she said. He brushed his hair back behind his ear with long elegant fingers as he listened intently.
In the dim light, from across the room, even Dean’s wolfen vision couldn’t tell what colour the witch’s eyes were right now. He’d noticed they were sometimes gray, sometimes blue. They seemed to change with his mood and with each situation, maybe each casting. The witch pressed a cloth-wrapped bag into the woman’s hands. There was a brief pause as she thanked the witch profusely and snagged a small sack from her belt and pushed it into his hands. The witch didn’t look to see how much, just smiled tersely and sent the woman off with a dazed, happy look on her face.
Of course, there were other times when the witch’s eyes glowed more green than gray and the tattoos on his long fingers seemed to move in the shadows as he placed a box or bottle into his client’s trembling hands. The witch would shake his shaggy head gently and whisper soothing words as they begged or pleaded for him to do more. The people waiting would look away, sending up whispered prayers and crossing themselves in the desperate hope that they would have better luck when their turn came.
The witch waved in the next person in line, and disappeared behind the beaded curtain. Dean relaxed into his chair, exhaling a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He had to admit he wasn’t immune to the witch’s charms either. He looked around the bar. Post Fall, Roxy and Mr. R had commandeered the building, a small clothing store on the main drag of Lawrence, and repurposed it into a bar, because no matter what, people would still want to drink. Mr. R christened the cinderblock two-story building Roxy’s. It was a good choice in location with its high ceilings on the main floor and sturdy concrete pillars holding up the second floor. The furniture in the bar was an odd collection of mismatched wooden tables and chairs along with old chrome sets. Pretty much all pre-Fall era furnishings were on display here. Fake wood paneling covered some of the walls and a few framed oil paintings of flowers and forestscapes hung from the walls, scavenged from deserted homes in the area. The occupants today were the same odd collection as the last time he was here. Older in age, many survivors of the great Fall.
Most of the young had left town looking for greener pastures, while these old-timers stuck it out and carved a living out of this dying place. Lawrence had once been a thriving city of nearly a million souls. Now you’d be lucky to gather a hundred full time residents. Roxy’s was the town’s only restaurant, bar, and dollhouse all rolled up in one. And one of the better examples of this kind of establishment in the territory.
The bar itself was a hodgepodge of cabinets and shelves assembled behind the store’s original solid wood sales desk. A wide concrete staircase led upstairs to the dolls’ domain, and two beefy bouncers stood guard at the bottom of the stairs. The witch’s clients formed a ragged line along the back wall, some standing, some sitting, some pacing anxiously. Roxy had a waitress serving up tea to those in line and sandwiches for those that could pay. The witch only passed through town for a day or two every other month. Most had traveled long distances to see him. Many looked worried, the sick cradled between them in blanketed bundles. Some spent their time mending worn out boots or knitting new winter hats. A lot of them were farmers now, trying to eke out a living in the narrow stretches of land not ruined by radiation or bombing from the Fall.
A brewery in the basement supplied the bar with beer. Two of Roxy’s regulars kept her in barley and malt in exchange for drinking privileges. Roxy also traded for some better vintages when she could. There was a kitchen, and Roxy was a damn fine cook, but it was the dolls that really kept the place going. Hunters and locals alike would drop by to sample Roxy’s dolls. She ran a clean shop and charged fair, and all the dolls were willing. That couldn’t be said of most towns left standing. There was a town sheriff, Max. He was asleep in the corner in the sole recliner. Everyone knew that was Max’s seat, and even newcomers stayed clear of it when Max was around. He and Roxy had been friends for years, and he made sure she and her dolls were kept safe.
The witch had been a recent addition, Dean had learned. Roxy had folded him into her business a couple years back, making a place for him every two months when he came by. Dean thought it was insurance for Roxy and her dolls as much as anything. Having access to the spellcaster was as good as a pre-Fall doctor. It was good business to have one around; they kept everyone healthy and brought in new business. It was a wonderful ace in the hole in this post-Fall world.
Dean had been following or trying to follow the spellcaster since his last visit to town to ascertain his bona fides and if he could do the job. Of course, any time he interacted with humans he had to cover his tufted ears because unlike him, most wolfen were killing machines, that had sworn allegiance to various demons, and no sane human would want one near them. And there was the issue of being on Lucifer’s capture list. Being constantly on the run from Lucifer’s agents made Dean’s ability to look into the witch doubly tough. He couldn’t just wait in line like the humans. He needed to find out what sleazy peccadillos this witch had and if he’d sell him out to Lucifer before he walked up to him. He’d learned from bitter experience to never take a spellcaster at face value, even if this one had such a pretty, pretty face.
So, in the time he had left, he watched the witch, in particular when the client was a young or particularly pretty one. He looked for the signs as they emerged. But no matter how hard he looked he couldn’t catch anything of fear or reproach in their eyes, no signs of abuse at all. This witch must be a lot better than all the ones he’d dealt with in the past because no matter how much people raved about this particular witch, one way or another, all of them were cut from the same cloth.
And so it went. Every fifteen or twenty minutes the curtain would part, the beads sparkling in the lamplight, and the witch would guide another soul out. Dean drummed his fingers impatiently on the wood table. He was normally patient. He’d had to be. Whether it was on a hunt, waiting for a were or vamp to show up, or some other big bad, Dean had spent a lot of time waiting to get what he wanted. But that was before Lucifer decided he wanted him. Now, his patience was at an end; what he needed was action. And if the cost of what came next was hard, well he would deal with it. He’d done it before, sometimes even with his Daddy lookin’ on with shame in his eyes. Shame he couldn’t protect Dean from the latest deal they’d had to strike in order to keep them safe.
Even now as a grown man, Dean had ended up more than once feeling used and dirty after his dealings with a spellcaster. “So pretty,” they’d say before their hands started to touch, to pinch, to grab. He hadn’t met one yet that was worth a speck of dirt. This one, though, had come highly recommended, almost unheard of in a witch. Usually, especially post-Fall, a visit to a spellcaster was the act of the desperate or dying. Dean was both at this point. He’d already been to two other witches once he sensed he needed help. One had been dead when he finally tracked him down, and the other didn’t have the skills to do what Dean needed. This witch had to be the one. He’d already wasted the two months between visits for a chance to surveil the spellcaster’s activities making sure he was legit. Now he was the only one Dean could feasibly get to before his time ran out. His gut told him he had to act now.
It was well past midnight when the last of those in line had been seen to, though you’d never know the time from looking outside at the wraith storm still firmly raging.
Even the dolls knew when they were upstaged. No john was going to risk his life or soul making his way through this storm for a simple night’s pleasure. They sat playing Queene for pennies. Some painted their nails, a few young ones even tried half-heartedly to entice some of the younger bucks waiting in line, but no one was biting. As the evening approached, each had quietly slipped off to their rooms over the bar, leaving only the old-timers snoring softly in their chairs.
Finally in the wee hours of the night, the last customer of the day excitedly pressed their hard-earned coins or barter into the witch’s hands, and headed off to the arms of their families waiting patiently in the barn to sleep.
Finally free of obligations, the witch rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck, stretching gracefully. His fox tilted eyes were now a dark, swirling blue green, and Dean’s breath caught in his chest. Even the scar running down the man’s left cheek only enhanced his beauty, rather than detracted from it. He adjusted himself discreetly as he continued to eye his subject.
Roxy stopped polishing the bar and grabbed a glass, looking over at the witch expectantly. “Beer, hon?” The oil lamp overhead made a halo of her shock of snow white hair. It contrasted with her milk chocolate complexion.
Dean snorted. She seemed to be completely under the witch’s spell and provided him with anything he asked for. He wondered how the spellcaster paid his bill.
“Oh God, yes,” The witch murmured, his voice soft and deep as he stepped into the brighter light of the bar and smiled.
“Damn, that was a long one.” The silk of the long sage green robe he wore whispered as he settled against the bar. Almost a kimono, Dean plucked the ancient word out of the recesses of his mind. It looked good on him too, masculine but sensual somehow, mysterious, like its owner. It settled over his shirt and vest and buckskin pants like a second skin. Someone had painstakingly embroidered the wide cuffs and edges of the front with a series of protective runes in gold and bronze and green. It ended a few inches short of the wrists and Dean had a clear view of the rows of tattoos snaking around the man’s wrists, pentagram and sigils on his hands and fingers.
Roxy poured and pushed the froth-topped glass in front of him. “You’ll still be in for a hell of a storm tomorrow. Want to stay another day? You could look my dolls over.”
“Nah, you know that would be busy work, they’re all fit as fiddles.”
“Strange thing havin’ a wraith storm squat here your last two visits in a row. You piss off the wrong demon, Samuel?”
The spellcaster chuckled and took a long pull from his beer. “Not that I know of, but it is getting to be a bit suspicious.”
“I’m sure it’s just a coincidence.” Roxy tutted and wiped at an invisible stain. “Hey, I got moose stew tonight. Shamus bagged a big one up on the bluff before the storm rolled in. And yes, I just made up a batch of biscuits just for you”
The witch gave a tired smile. “Sounds good, I’m as hungry as a bear.”
“Comin’ right up then, hon,” Roxy winked before heading off to the kitchen. She had a prominent limp. Dean had heard it was from a vampire attack some years back that got Mr. Roxy. She’d continued to manage the bar by herself after losing him.
Dean took a sip of his beer. He’d surveilled the witch during his last healing sessions and tried without success to track him back to his home base. Somewhat unbelievably, he’d lost his trail. One minute the witch had been there, the next gone, and even his wolfen nose couldn’t track him. This time he had considered waiting till morning when the spellcaster was packing to go, but there were always too many people around. Now was his only chance. It was now or never.
Decision made, he rose from his chair, leaving his belongings there for the moment. He re-adjusted his knitted cap, making sure it was pulled down tight over his tufted ears, and walked to the bar. He made no effort to conceal his movements. He saw the unconscious stiffening of the witch’s back as he sidled up against the bar, a respectful distance away. The spellcaster didn’t look at him immediately, which gave Dean a chance for a closer look. Up close he looked even bigger, towering over Dean’s not inconsiderable height of 6’1 by at least another three inches. No stink of blood and patchouli like most witches he’d met, and close up the witch was stunning, with a vulpine brow that made the lighting in the bar cast deep shadows over his eyes, high sharp cheekbones, and cupid’s bow lips. He had an ethereal, almost fae beauty. Dean could feel himself stiffen in arousal again. There was something about the man, just… He was almost caught off guard when the witch gathered himself and turned to face him. “Sorry stranger, I’m done…De…You’re here!...”
The witches’ voice trailed off, his eyes widening in surprise, as he stared at Dean, his gaze roving over him like a starving man as a smile blossomed on his face. Dean blinked and stepped back in shock, bumping into a bar chair behind him, as the witch’s hand rose to touch him.
The spellcaster jerked, his hand dropping immediately, and he let out a quiet huff and glanced away. When he finally looked back at Dean, any trace of emotion was shuttered away. His eyes glowed as he pursed his lips and began again, “Sorry, long day, I just finished for the night…” He shook his head, a tired grin on his face, “I mistook you for someone else.”
“I know…know you just finished….” Dean licked his lips, and tried to banish all doubt from his mind. There was no if, only how. “I’ve been looking for you…someone with your skills…“ He shook his head, “Waiting for you. I need your help, now.”
The witch’s eyes widened, a ripple of fear visible on his face. “I. Uh…” The witch closed his eyes and glanced away again, collecting himself. “Let’s try this again, shall we?”
Dean nodded just as Roxy returned to the bar, a steaming bowl of stew in her hand and a mounded plate of biscuits.
“He bothering you, Sam?” Roxy carefully set the food down, her hands surreptitiously reaching for the shotgun Dean knew she kept under the bar.
“No, no, nothing like that. Just one last patient. Would you mind Roxy, maybe bringing a second bowl, on me, for our friend here…?”
“Dean. Dean Winchester.” Dean nodded tersely.
“You sure?” Roxy eyed the witch carefully, her hand still under the bar.
“Yeah.” The spellcaster stared intently into Roxy’s eyes.
“Alright then.” She side-eyed Dean before limping back to the kitchen.
Once Roxy was gone, the witch rounded on him with surprising speed and grabbed Dean’s hand. Dean had his knife drawn and pressed against the spellcaster’s throat, his canines lengthened unconsciously, filling his face before he could blink. He’d never had his canines do that before, ever, not without full shifting. He shoved that thought ruthlessly down for the moment and growled, “You want your throat in one piece, you better have a good reason for grabbin’ me like that.”
The witch… Sam… dropped his hands as if scalded, his brows knit in surprise. “You’re wolfen!”
Dean bit his lip and ground out, “Care to keep your voice down? I don’t want to end up dead by coming to you.”
“Oh,” the witch huffed, his Adam’s apple dancing close to Dean’s blade. “I just wanted to get a feel for what ails you. No harm meant.” The spellcaster raised his hands, his kimono dropping back to his elbows revealing more tattoos.
“Alright then, but nice and easy.”
“Sorry, sorry. I should know better.”
Dean tucked the knife back into his sleeve. His canines retracted slowly. Dean blinked, he had never had a part of himself shift uncontrollably like that before. It weirded him out completely and it took everything he had not to snatch his hands back as the witch’s large hands slowly engulfed his. He whispered a few words, and Dean felt an electric tingle surge though him.
The witch continued in a more hushed tone. “You’re wolfen, but you weren’t always one. And I sense no links to a demon. When were you bitten? How are you holding your human form in the middle of a wraith storm?”
Dean shook his head, he’d never expected the spellcaster to just know, to understand that most wolfen were the next best thing to familiars to demons, and it took extensive measures to stay beyond their control.
“I was bitten when I was a child. A demon killed my mother and baby brother when I was four. Set a pack of wolfen on us. My dad managed to get me out, but not before one of them bit me. I was lucky, though, Dad had some friends in low places who were able to hook me up with some charms and potions which kept me from falling under a demon’s thrall until I hit puberty. Then I needed stronger stuff. Over the years, I’ve gotten better wards. That’s how we stayed hidden beyond any demon’s reach. But they still need charging or I go all furry and brainless on full moons, and I’m open season to be taken as some demon’s bitch.”
The witch looked thoughtful, “And we have a full moon in four days if I’m not mistaken.”
Dean nodded.
The spellcaster stepped back from Dean and picked up his spoon just as Roxy returned with another steaming bowl of stew. She looked at Sam’s untouched bowl, then glared accusingly at Dean. “For God’s sake, let the man eat, he’s been working all day. Business later.”
The witch chuckled fondly at her overprotectiveness. “It’s okay, Roxy. I can’t help Dean here. I have to take him back to my cottage to do this.”
“What? NO!” Both Roxy and Dean cried out simultaneously.
They looked at each other in surprise. Dean recovered first, “I thought you could just say a few words and sprinkle something over me and we’re done?”
“There’s no way you’re taking a complete stranger and a possibly dangerous one at that back to your place.” Roxy huffed, talking over Dean.
The witch raised his hands, “Hey, hey, who’s the spellcaster here? This is no simple spell, and all the things I need are back home, and it seems Dean here is on a tight schedule.” The spellcaster shrugged and swallowed a heaping spoonful of stew. He sighed in weariness and pleasure. “Damn, that’s good. Besides, Dean won’t hurt me, will you?”
Dean had just picked up his own spoon and was sniffing at the stew suspiciously. He raised his head and stared at the witch, unsmiling. “Not without cause.”
“See, it’s settled then,” The spellcaster said cheerfully.
Decision made, the last dregs of the witch’s energy leached out of him. He finished his stew and several biscuits in silence before pushing his bowl away. “Delicious as usual, Roxy. I’m off to bed. Dean, you’ll need to sleep in my room. That way we can get an early start.” The witch stood.
“Sleeping with you ain’t part of the deal,” Dean said flatly. “If you thought it was, you’re sadly mistaken.” He shifted his hand to his holster.
For the second time that evening the spellcaster raised his hands in surrender. “Not what I meant at all. Just we need to get up early and hope for a lull in the storm. It’s easier if you’re sleeping in the same room, and I don’t have to go looking for you.”
Dean narrowed his gaze, watching for any tells that the witch might be lying. He saw nothing and he couldn’t afford to piss him off. He was the only spellcaster he’d heard of left alive in the Blue Zone that might be able to help him.
Finally, Dean nodded, “As long as we’re clear.”
“Clear as a bell,” the witch replied.
As Dean went to gather his belongings, he heard Roxy sigh, “Sam, I wouldn’t trust that one as far as I could throw him. Besides, I don’t think this storm will have let up by then.”
“It’s okay, Roxy. I’m perfectly safe, and I have wards against the storm that’ll work for Dean and me. Time is of the essence here.”
“Fine. Stubborn damn witch!” Roxy sighed and began to turn off some of the oil lamps before rounding on Dean sternly, “You touch one hair on my boy’s head and if he hasn’t already turned you into a vorerat his self, I’ll personally skin you alive.”
Dean cocked a brow in surprise, a slightly bemused look on his face, but decided not to stir up any more trouble tonight. Instead he tipped his hat politely, “Yes, ma’am, understood.” Roxy glared at him before heading to the back, presumably where her own rooms were.
“Thanks Roxy. I owe you.”
“You bet you do, Singer.” She doused the last lamp amid the snoring locals.
The witch wearily walked to the beaded curtain, holding the shimmering beads back for Dean to bring his pack in.
He glanced around, taking in the crowded storage room. A small table and several chairs were set up at one side of the long narrow room. For the consultations, Dean presumed. A metal framed bed was jammed along the wall at the other end, between barrels of beer and moonshine and crates of stock. Through a window set high in the wall Dean could see the snow still blustering and blowing, and his sensitive wolfen ears rang from the non-stop wails of the wraiths. There was no actual heat source, but a large grate on the wall peeked through to the kitchen on the other side, and the old stove there kept the storage room comfortably warm.
The spellcaster gestured toward some sacks of rice lining the opposite wall. “Just roll your blanket out on some of those. I can’t guarantee, but they should be a bit softer than the floor.”
Dean nodded and dropped his pack as the witch renewed the protections on the room. He’d done his fair share of sleeping on hard floors when he was around humans and couldn’t shift, and the sacks would be a step up. He nodded his thanks.
The witch turned off the few oil lamps in the room, leaving only the one by his bed lit. He sat down wearily, the old metal frame squeaking in protest.
Dean wondered what would happen next as he hung his coat and hat up on an empty peg. He realized he might have miscalculated his refusal to sleep with the witch. He couldn’t afford to embarrass the man or queer the deal because of his sharp tongue. He could leave it up to the witch to right this, but sometimes it was better to take the witch by the horns. It gave him a little more control over what would happen. And it would be easy with this one, beautiful as he was.
The witch made no overt gestures or demands, just silently removed his kimono. He laid it gently over the back of a chair. He left on the Henley underneath, its sleeves shoved up to reveal more of the mesmerizing tattoos on his arms. He startled when he noticed Dean had moved silently to stand beside him.
He looked up, a quizzical expression on his face.
“Never saw a tattoo that moved.”
The witch gave him a half smile. “Side effect of some of my work.”
Dean stood there, gazing at the spellcaster’s face, watching for a sign.
“Maybe I was being a bit hasty before.” Dean’s eyebrows rose as he jerked his head toward the bar. “You’re a sight better-lookin’ than anything I’ve seen in ages, and ‘sides, I don’t want to begin on the wrong foot. How do you want to do this?” Keeping his eyes on the witch, Dean slowly started to strip, first his shirt then the Henley, leaving only his wifebeater. Languidly he tugged off his beany, freeing his tufted ears, which straightened and flexed; he ran his hand along them, letting out a sensual moan that was only half faked. It felt good to let his ears go free. Then he casually raked his fingers through his short brown hair, tilting his neck back and shaking his head so the witch could get a good look at his neck and chest. His gaze returned to the witch, and he smiled a knowing, dirty smile at the witch’s sharp intake of breath.
“Like what you see?” Dean’s voice was a husky rumble as he pulled the wifebeater achingly slowly over his head, revealing as he did the still-healing scar running down his side from the rawhead he’d run into down in New Mexico. Most witches Dean had dealt with found scars and bruises sexy, but this witch’s gaze never left his face, his pupils blown wide with lust. He could smell the witch’s arousal, a sweet, spicy scent that filled his nose. He growled softly and gently reached out to run his fingers along the witch’s silky soft hair, rich with the scent of fresh soap and simple cleanliness.
The witch flinched, finally breaking out of his thrall. “Dean?”
The tufts of Dean’s ears twitched at the sound of his name on the witch’s lips, low and confused.
“How do you want to play it?” Dean plowed on, too tired to play games. He could smell the witch’s arousal, matching Dean’s growing erection. He just wanted to get on with this. He arched a brow coyly. “You can be the innocent witch, and I can be the evil wolfen that seduces you. I can be so bad...” Dean reached out and tugged the shoulders of the witch’s flannel down his arms.
The witch grabbed the flannel and clutched it to his chest, doing a great impression of a maiden in distress.
Dean smiled, a slow sensuous smile. “Oh, don’t worry darlin’, I’ll be gentle.”
“DEAN!” The witch’s eyes flared blue, and a dark halo like an extra large shadow of the witch rose around him.
Dean stepped back in confusion. “What?” Bewilderment in his voice. “You asked me to your room. I’m here. If you don’t like that, we can do it anyway you want.”
Sudden realization dawned in the witch’s eyes. He scrubbed his hands over his face. “It’s not. I mean, I didn’t want that. I mean I might want that, but not that way...” Sam’s hands flung up in desperation. “When I said sleep, I meant sleep. Why would you think I meant I wanted your services?”
Dean snorted, hands on his hips. “That’s what all witches want. At least in my experience. Paying you guys is never enough.”
“Well, I’m sorry to mislead you, but after ten hours casting, when I say sleep, I do mean it.” The witch yanked his flannel back on and shoved the sheets of his bed down, climbing between the covers alone.
“Ah, okay then. Sorry…” Dean mumbled, confused and a little guilty. He held up his hands in surrender and backed slowly toward his bed.
Disgruntled by the whole debacle, Dean jerked his own Henley and shirt back on, and mechanically rearranged the bags of rice to form a long bed. He pulled his bedroll from his pack, toed off his boots and climbed in. It was surprisingly comfortable. He gave his tufted ears another brush and almost whimpered in pleasure as his ears flexed again under his touch. It wasn’t fun keeping them covered all the time when he was around humans, but it was certainly better than getting shot for being a mutey. He used an extra sweater as a pillow and slid his knife under it, just in case. He made no effort to hide his actions from the witch, who said nothing.
As soon as Dean was settled, the witch turned the remaining lamp off. Now the only illumination was the grey wintery light from the storm outside and the lonely howling of the wraiths. Dean lay there in silence, contemplating the witch’s reactions, wondering how he had read the signals so wrong. He had smelled Sam’s interest. Dean stared at him, as the pale light from the window shone down on the witch, casting a soft glow over his face, half in shadow. Still confused, Dean rolled onto his back, and threw his arm over his eyes.
His senses prickled, and when he looked back, the witch was lying there looking directly at him, a similar thoughtful expression on his face. “Good night, Dean.”
“Night,” Dean whispered and watched the witch nod and roll onto his stomach facing the wall.
Dean lay there and listened to the witch’s breathing deepen until he slipped off to true sleep. As he waited to find sleep himself, Dean expected to feel uncomfortable, but the strangely homey ‘good night’ had dispelled all awkwardness Dean had felt building between them. He lay there watching the snowflakes batter themselves uselessly against the glass and wondered why he even cared.
¤ ¤ ¤
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