Shadows of the Night - 11/15 - AU - SPN fic
Title: Shadows of the Night
Author: starpixie16
Chapters: 11/15
Rating: NC-17 [mild language, explicit sexual content (chapter 9)]
Characters/Pairing: Sam, Dean/OFC
Warning/Spoilers: AU, sexual situations; vague allusions to events from season one.
Summary: In September 1932, Sam and Dean Winchester receive a telegram leading them to California. On their last night there, Sam suddenly has a nightmare of a man's death at the hands of a mysterious woman. The brothers investigate, and in the process, Sam learns a few secrets about Dean's past.
Author's Notes: Many huge thanks to elanurel for being my beta. This story also serves as my response to challenge #8 at spn_het_love: Then She Appeared.
<< Previous Chapter
Shadows of the Night
______________________________
Chapter Eleven
Sam toted so many books around with him that he could have been defined as a walking library. He kept the thick, aging tomes in a large suitcase that resembled the ones carried by traveling salesmen. The books had taken years to aquire, most of them belonging to their father before he had struck off alone and left them behind.
Each one held no shortage of information about demons and their counterparts, usually accompanied by chilling illustrations composed from bare, stark pencil sketches that were often so hideous that they even gave Dean pause. Sam consulted these books on nearly every case, having pored through them on so many occasions that he had practically memorized their contents.
Research was not neccesarily an assignment that Dean volunteered for willingly. Usually, the research was left to his brother, but that morning in the early hours before the sun blazed into the sky, Dean was the one hunched over the books in Sam's collection. He flipped through the worn pages, searching for anything that could clue them in to exactly what they were hunting this time.
Sam sat across from Dean at the cluttered table, a pencil clutched in his hand as he scribbled furiously on a pad of paper. He was attempting to sketch the matchbook cover he had seen in his nightmare with varying degrees of success, but no shortage of frustration.
They had each been wide awake since Sam's terrifying vision had shattered their peaceful sleep. Neither had showered or dressed completely, choosing instead to dig into the boring task of seeking Helena's origins. Dean sighed, stifling a yawn and ruffling a hand through his disheveled dark blonde hair. He hadn't combed it yet, and rubbing a hand over his chin he noted that he needed a shave as well.
Sam's attention was focused with determination on the drawing in front of him. He seemed to be finding it incredibly difficult to capture the image from his memory onto the notepad he had found lying on the nightstand. An annoyed grunt escaped his lips before he tore off the current page he'd been sketching on, balling it up and throwing it down in the center of the table.
Glad for a brief distraction from the blurring text laid before him, Dean picked up the rejected illustration, smoothing it out on top of his book to see what Sam had deemed unacceptable about it. There was a neat drawing of a matchbook cover, including the shadows that had obscured it in Sam's vision, making it difficult to decipher.
"This it?" Dean inquired, looking up at Sam curiously.
Sam narrowed his eyes. "No," he retorted forcefully despite his raw throat. "I can't seem to get it right." He picked up the pencil, ready to try again, and closed his eyes to visualize the object once more.
Abandoning the open books in front of him, Dean got up to stretch his arms and legs. He walked over to his bed, returning with the pack of cigarettes he had put down on his bedside table the night before. Taking his seat, he produced a butt, tapping it briskly on the right page of one of the books he'd been leafing through. He stuck the packet of remaining smokes into his pants pocket, watching his brother who was absorbed in another attempt to put the image of the mysterious matchbook down on paper. "You know, with all the shadows, it's probably a bust to even bother with it."
Sam made a careful, deliberate line with his pencil, replying without lifting his head. "I know, but it's something to work with. It might be an important clue."
"To what?" Dean struck a match against the edge of the table, his newly acquired lighter still in his jacket on the other side of the room.
"Finding the victim."
"Sam, it's pretty safe to bet that the dame you saw is already dead. The clock said 12:45? That's long since passed."
"I know." Sam made a few more strokes in the sketch, dropping his pencil. "I guess I shouldn't be wasting my time with this."
"Hey, I'm not saying give up all hope," Dean quickly insisted, a puff of smoke accompanying the words. "Just that we should be realistic about the thing. We haven't exactly been lucky in the saving lives part of this case."
Sam nodded, tossing the notepad over to his brother. "There's not much to it, but if we can figure it out, maybe there's something in it to help us with this job."
Gazing at the drawing, Dean couldn't pinpoint much difference from the one Sam had discarded earlier. "Well, it looks like an emblem. That could be from anywhere, but you said it was gold-embossed?"
"Yeah, it was." Sam helped himself to one of the books that Dean was neglecting.
"Then it's probably from a nightclub or a restaurant. Maybe a hotel lounge." Dean pondered aloud. "No regular, ordinary business is going to spring for a fancy design like that for an old matchbook."
Sam flicked through several pages of the book he had taken, glancing up briefly. "Have you come across anything?"
Turning his attention back to the volume in front of him, Dean let his cigarette dangle in the corner of his mouth, curling ribbons of smoke drifting into a halo around his head. "Nope, just a lot of stuff we can't use. I was looking at the succubus, though."
"Yeah?" Sam prompted, raising a questioning eyebrow.
Dean shook his head. "Our Helena isn't one of them. They all attack their victims sexually, and the victims are always men. Demons have a set pattern to follow. They never deviate from it." He tapped a particular passage on the page. "Succubi basically kill fellas by screwing them to death. Plain and simple, brother."
"All right," Sam said distractedly. His eyes appeared to be drawn to something he had discovered in the paragraphs of the book he'd been flipping through. "You know, maybe the succubus is wrong, but I had the right idea."
"What do you mean?" Dean leaned forward, trying to see what had captured Sam's attention. It was too hard for him to read the tiny text upside down, however, so he gave up.
"The succubus attacks her victims while they sleep, right?" Sam speculated, an enthusiasm creeping into his voice that revealed he was onto something. At Dean's assent, he continued. "Well, there are at least a dozen other demons and creatures that, according to legend, do the same thing."
Dean nodded. "Like vampires."
"Sure," Sam responded with a bob of his head. "There's also something called the alp, and then there's the mara."
"What do they do?"
"You'll be interested to know that the mara gives people nightmares so that she can feed from their fear. She has shapeshifting abilities that allow her to take whatever form she wishes -- "
Dean interrupted. "Like a blonde nightclub dancer?"
"Bingo," Sam said, smiling. "She feeds from them for roughly a week. Somewhere around that length of time, they've become accustomed to the nightmares, and their fear isn't as potent. The mara can no longer get the edge from them that she did at the beginning. Would you care to guess what she does when she tires of her prey?"
"Oh, I don't know," Dean began, feigning ignorance. "Would she, maybe, suffocate them?"
"Yes, she would," Sam replied. "The mara is part of Scandinavian and Germanic folklore, but the legends have taken many forms. In fact, in some cultures, she's given attributes of vampires, having fangs and drinking blood. But what's here in this book seems to conclude that those are simply fictional twists on the story."
"That explains Donald Metz experiencing nightmares before his death," Dean observed, taking a puff from his cigarette. He eyed the bruises around Sam's throat before adding, "I think she's after you, too."
Sam nodded silently.
"Metz saw her. Have you?" Dean dug underneath the heap of books, locating the ash tray so he could stub out his dwindling cigarette.
"No, only in the nightmares themselves," Sam responded. "It says here she often appears once -- to establish a connection to her prey -- then doesn't return until it comes time for her to kill them. She feeds from more than one victim per night through means of projecting herself to them, but to kill someone, she must be in the same room physically, though she doesn't have to touch them."
"Anything in there about the bruises?" Dean questioned.
"No, not a word." Sam turned the page, scanning over the text.
"Here's what's eating me," Dean spoke up, resting his elbows on the foxed pages of the book in front of him. "What does a demon want with an identity? You know, she's got a name, a job. It doesn't quite make sense, does it?"
"Actually, it makes a lot of sense," Sam stated, leaning back in his chair. "She wants to fit in, become inconspicuous. Besides, I imagine the job provides her with a satisfying hunting ground. Clearly she found Timothy Adamson there. It probably wouldn't be out-of-the-question to assume that's how she selected Donald Metz, too."
"You're forgetting that we've never set a foot in the place, but she's all over you," Dean observed.
"That's true, but I would never wager any bets that the nightclub is her only way of finding victims."
Dean sat back, closing the book he'd been avoiding earlier with an audible snap. "Now the best part: how do we kill her?"
"Consecrated iron," Sam answered without hesitation. "In any form."
"Bullets?" Dean's lips quirked into a grin.
"As long as they're consecrated iron, yes." Sam met his gaze levelly.
"Great," Dean said, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. "Last time we were at Pastor Jim's, we cast a few iron rounds and he blessed them. I'm kind of anxious to see if they pack an extra punch compared to the ones me and Dad would bless ourselves."
"Glad to see you're starting to have some fun," Sam remarked wryly with a small smile.
"Give me an excuse to shoot something evil, and I'm a pretty happy fella," Dean returned, rising from his seat.
"I suppose we should stop by the Golden Peacock tonight then." Sam decided. "If Matt's right, we'll probably run into Helena there."
"Sure, then we get her alone and pump her full of bullets," Dean agreed. He stopped on his path to the bathroom, shifting an uneasy glance back at the dark imprints marring Sam's neck. "Those bruises are going to draw the wrong kind of attention, though."
Sam frowned, a hand trailing up to gingerly touch his neck. "There's not much I can do, Dean. I can't turn my lapels up -- that would look ridiculous. They wouldn't hide it anyway. It's far too warm to wear a scarf. What else can I do? Go buy some powder?"
Dean grinned, eyes sparkling with sudden inspiration. "Swell idea, Sammy. I think I know just the thing."
Sam opened his mouth to press for an explanation, but Dean had already ducked into the bathroom and closed the door. Minutes later, the shower was running, leaving Sam alone in the other room to mull over what exactly Dean was plotting in his mind.
___________________________
FOOTNOTES:
Most of the information I gathered on the mara (also known as the mare) came from Wikipedia and "A Field Guide to Demons: Fairies, Fallen Angels, And Other Subversive Spirits" by Carol and Dinah Mack.
In the original versions of this story, a silver bullet was to be the object that could kill Helena, but after reading an excerpt from "A Field Guide to Demons ..." that cited iron and steel as deterrents, the silver was changed to iron rounds to better fit the folklore.
Next Chapter >>
Author: starpixie16
Chapters: 11/15
Rating: NC-17 [mild language, explicit sexual content (chapter 9)]
Characters/Pairing: Sam, Dean/OFC
Warning/Spoilers: AU, sexual situations; vague allusions to events from season one.
Summary: In September 1932, Sam and Dean Winchester receive a telegram leading them to California. On their last night there, Sam suddenly has a nightmare of a man's death at the hands of a mysterious woman. The brothers investigate, and in the process, Sam learns a few secrets about Dean's past.
Author's Notes: Many huge thanks to elanurel for being my beta. This story also serves as my response to challenge #8 at spn_het_love: Then She Appeared.
<< Previous Chapter
Shadows of the Night
______________________________
Chapter Eleven
Sam toted so many books around with him that he could have been defined as a walking library. He kept the thick, aging tomes in a large suitcase that resembled the ones carried by traveling salesmen. The books had taken years to aquire, most of them belonging to their father before he had struck off alone and left them behind.
Each one held no shortage of information about demons and their counterparts, usually accompanied by chilling illustrations composed from bare, stark pencil sketches that were often so hideous that they even gave Dean pause. Sam consulted these books on nearly every case, having pored through them on so many occasions that he had practically memorized their contents.
Research was not neccesarily an assignment that Dean volunteered for willingly. Usually, the research was left to his brother, but that morning in the early hours before the sun blazed into the sky, Dean was the one hunched over the books in Sam's collection. He flipped through the worn pages, searching for anything that could clue them in to exactly what they were hunting this time.
Sam sat across from Dean at the cluttered table, a pencil clutched in his hand as he scribbled furiously on a pad of paper. He was attempting to sketch the matchbook cover he had seen in his nightmare with varying degrees of success, but no shortage of frustration.
They had each been wide awake since Sam's terrifying vision had shattered their peaceful sleep. Neither had showered or dressed completely, choosing instead to dig into the boring task of seeking Helena's origins. Dean sighed, stifling a yawn and ruffling a hand through his disheveled dark blonde hair. He hadn't combed it yet, and rubbing a hand over his chin he noted that he needed a shave as well.
Sam's attention was focused with determination on the drawing in front of him. He seemed to be finding it incredibly difficult to capture the image from his memory onto the notepad he had found lying on the nightstand. An annoyed grunt escaped his lips before he tore off the current page he'd been sketching on, balling it up and throwing it down in the center of the table.
Glad for a brief distraction from the blurring text laid before him, Dean picked up the rejected illustration, smoothing it out on top of his book to see what Sam had deemed unacceptable about it. There was a neat drawing of a matchbook cover, including the shadows that had obscured it in Sam's vision, making it difficult to decipher.
"This it?" Dean inquired, looking up at Sam curiously.
Sam narrowed his eyes. "No," he retorted forcefully despite his raw throat. "I can't seem to get it right." He picked up the pencil, ready to try again, and closed his eyes to visualize the object once more.
Abandoning the open books in front of him, Dean got up to stretch his arms and legs. He walked over to his bed, returning with the pack of cigarettes he had put down on his bedside table the night before. Taking his seat, he produced a butt, tapping it briskly on the right page of one of the books he'd been leafing through. He stuck the packet of remaining smokes into his pants pocket, watching his brother who was absorbed in another attempt to put the image of the mysterious matchbook down on paper. "You know, with all the shadows, it's probably a bust to even bother with it."
Sam made a careful, deliberate line with his pencil, replying without lifting his head. "I know, but it's something to work with. It might be an important clue."
"To what?" Dean struck a match against the edge of the table, his newly acquired lighter still in his jacket on the other side of the room.
"Finding the victim."
"Sam, it's pretty safe to bet that the dame you saw is already dead. The clock said 12:45? That's long since passed."
"I know." Sam made a few more strokes in the sketch, dropping his pencil. "I guess I shouldn't be wasting my time with this."
"Hey, I'm not saying give up all hope," Dean quickly insisted, a puff of smoke accompanying the words. "Just that we should be realistic about the thing. We haven't exactly been lucky in the saving lives part of this case."
Sam nodded, tossing the notepad over to his brother. "There's not much to it, but if we can figure it out, maybe there's something in it to help us with this job."
Gazing at the drawing, Dean couldn't pinpoint much difference from the one Sam had discarded earlier. "Well, it looks like an emblem. That could be from anywhere, but you said it was gold-embossed?"
"Yeah, it was." Sam helped himself to one of the books that Dean was neglecting.
"Then it's probably from a nightclub or a restaurant. Maybe a hotel lounge." Dean pondered aloud. "No regular, ordinary business is going to spring for a fancy design like that for an old matchbook."
Sam flicked through several pages of the book he had taken, glancing up briefly. "Have you come across anything?"
Turning his attention back to the volume in front of him, Dean let his cigarette dangle in the corner of his mouth, curling ribbons of smoke drifting into a halo around his head. "Nope, just a lot of stuff we can't use. I was looking at the succubus, though."
"Yeah?" Sam prompted, raising a questioning eyebrow.
Dean shook his head. "Our Helena isn't one of them. They all attack their victims sexually, and the victims are always men. Demons have a set pattern to follow. They never deviate from it." He tapped a particular passage on the page. "Succubi basically kill fellas by screwing them to death. Plain and simple, brother."
"All right," Sam said distractedly. His eyes appeared to be drawn to something he had discovered in the paragraphs of the book he'd been flipping through. "You know, maybe the succubus is wrong, but I had the right idea."
"What do you mean?" Dean leaned forward, trying to see what had captured Sam's attention. It was too hard for him to read the tiny text upside down, however, so he gave up.
"The succubus attacks her victims while they sleep, right?" Sam speculated, an enthusiasm creeping into his voice that revealed he was onto something. At Dean's assent, he continued. "Well, there are at least a dozen other demons and creatures that, according to legend, do the same thing."
Dean nodded. "Like vampires."
"Sure," Sam responded with a bob of his head. "There's also something called the alp, and then there's the mara."
"What do they do?"
"You'll be interested to know that the mara gives people nightmares so that she can feed from their fear. She has shapeshifting abilities that allow her to take whatever form she wishes -- "
Dean interrupted. "Like a blonde nightclub dancer?"
"Bingo," Sam said, smiling. "She feeds from them for roughly a week. Somewhere around that length of time, they've become accustomed to the nightmares, and their fear isn't as potent. The mara can no longer get the edge from them that she did at the beginning. Would you care to guess what she does when she tires of her prey?"
"Oh, I don't know," Dean began, feigning ignorance. "Would she, maybe, suffocate them?"
"Yes, she would," Sam replied. "The mara is part of Scandinavian and Germanic folklore, but the legends have taken many forms. In fact, in some cultures, she's given attributes of vampires, having fangs and drinking blood. But what's here in this book seems to conclude that those are simply fictional twists on the story."
"That explains Donald Metz experiencing nightmares before his death," Dean observed, taking a puff from his cigarette. He eyed the bruises around Sam's throat before adding, "I think she's after you, too."
Sam nodded silently.
"Metz saw her. Have you?" Dean dug underneath the heap of books, locating the ash tray so he could stub out his dwindling cigarette.
"No, only in the nightmares themselves," Sam responded. "It says here she often appears once -- to establish a connection to her prey -- then doesn't return until it comes time for her to kill them. She feeds from more than one victim per night through means of projecting herself to them, but to kill someone, she must be in the same room physically, though she doesn't have to touch them."
"Anything in there about the bruises?" Dean questioned.
"No, not a word." Sam turned the page, scanning over the text.
"Here's what's eating me," Dean spoke up, resting his elbows on the foxed pages of the book in front of him. "What does a demon want with an identity? You know, she's got a name, a job. It doesn't quite make sense, does it?"
"Actually, it makes a lot of sense," Sam stated, leaning back in his chair. "She wants to fit in, become inconspicuous. Besides, I imagine the job provides her with a satisfying hunting ground. Clearly she found Timothy Adamson there. It probably wouldn't be out-of-the-question to assume that's how she selected Donald Metz, too."
"You're forgetting that we've never set a foot in the place, but she's all over you," Dean observed.
"That's true, but I would never wager any bets that the nightclub is her only way of finding victims."
Dean sat back, closing the book he'd been avoiding earlier with an audible snap. "Now the best part: how do we kill her?"
"Consecrated iron," Sam answered without hesitation. "In any form."
"Bullets?" Dean's lips quirked into a grin.
"As long as they're consecrated iron, yes." Sam met his gaze levelly.
"Great," Dean said, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. "Last time we were at Pastor Jim's, we cast a few iron rounds and he blessed them. I'm kind of anxious to see if they pack an extra punch compared to the ones me and Dad would bless ourselves."
"Glad to see you're starting to have some fun," Sam remarked wryly with a small smile.
"Give me an excuse to shoot something evil, and I'm a pretty happy fella," Dean returned, rising from his seat.
"I suppose we should stop by the Golden Peacock tonight then." Sam decided. "If Matt's right, we'll probably run into Helena there."
"Sure, then we get her alone and pump her full of bullets," Dean agreed. He stopped on his path to the bathroom, shifting an uneasy glance back at the dark imprints marring Sam's neck. "Those bruises are going to draw the wrong kind of attention, though."
Sam frowned, a hand trailing up to gingerly touch his neck. "There's not much I can do, Dean. I can't turn my lapels up -- that would look ridiculous. They wouldn't hide it anyway. It's far too warm to wear a scarf. What else can I do? Go buy some powder?"
Dean grinned, eyes sparkling with sudden inspiration. "Swell idea, Sammy. I think I know just the thing."
Sam opened his mouth to press for an explanation, but Dean had already ducked into the bathroom and closed the door. Minutes later, the shower was running, leaving Sam alone in the other room to mull over what exactly Dean was plotting in his mind.
___________________________
FOOTNOTES:
Most of the information I gathered on the mara (also known as the mare) came from Wikipedia and "A Field Guide to Demons: Fairies, Fallen Angels, And Other Subversive Spirits" by Carol and Dinah Mack.
In the original versions of this story, a silver bullet was to be the object that could kill Helena, but after reading an excerpt from "A Field Guide to Demons ..." that cited iron and steel as deterrents, the silver was changed to iron rounds to better fit the folklore.
Next Chapter >>