OhSam Triple Play 2016!
It's November 2, an auspicious (if ominous) day for our darling Sam, so to herald his introduction to The Red Stuff, let's revisit an annual tradition. Welcome to the OhSam Triple Play 2016! This year, we're offering a focus on a reoccurring theme in Sam's life: blood"Blood" could be interpreted in many ways. Family don't end with blood. The demon
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Rating: PG-13
Genre/pairing: gen
Characters:Sam, Dean
Spoilers: S12
Warnings: liberties with Native mythology, gore
Notes: whauksis, Wampanoag, "fox"
Wampanoag, Sam said, Shawmut. Something about Mt. Misery, and southeasterlies, the way the winds shift over the water, crosshatch the coastals, roll up into mid- and high-Bay State, over the formerly waterlogged like, well, an angel's wet dream. He was studying, building things with his hands the way he did sometimes, post-hell years, sigils or cabins or castles, all three. He looked bad-breakfast pale, warroom-wired at their own table.
Got us a case, Sam said.
Their mother was gone.
Dean shed the dead-guy and put the bags in the car.
*
There were leaf-peepers on the Pike, blithe, kind of traffic you loathe, long for when you hit the woods, shotgun
loaded for--
Sister monsters, Sam said, tribal lore; muttered something about hobomok, and death spirits, and the word whauksis, to which Dean smirked--what's it?
Sammy stuttered his eyes, let his mouth twitch:
Think fox-snake hybrid, with...red eyes and twenty-inch claws.
That hunt in pairs like vetalas, Sam said, though hard to say since the colonists fucked up all the accounts.
Of what, Dean said.
Kills, said Sam, of course.
*
Kehtannit, Great Spirit, make this land a mother.
It might have been on the wind.
*
Sister-vixens, Dean said, waggled his brows, before he stopped laughing.
One of them had eaten her share of Sam's guts. The other chased Dean to a big beech, howling when he sliced her sister down.
They're tracking us. Sam said, when they stepped to the old-growth, scented the blood, almost, of the last vic,
a teenager nearly the size of Sam, his mama wailing on the evening news.
*
Sam breathed oakpollen in through one nostril, old mushroom (russela emetica, North American toxins grade E, Men of Letters file..., he tried to tell Dean, urgent) crushed under one paw and burnt with autumn, bed of bloodied maple graded to gold, black oak still clinging to green.
Hoardin' acorns, Sammy? Dean said, pressed a palm to the spit-slimed gash.
Mom, Sam moaned.
This place has too many creation myths, Sam said, serious, and passed out.
*
Sister-foxes, snakes. Their tracks were lined with slime.
Dean followed them, hauling Sammy back.
Sam muttered something about the devil, and Dean stopped--
--these woods were full of him once, bewildered pilgrims gone darkside, caught between god and the
fatherless forest--
Dean stopped, let Sammy lean.
*
They had to ER it; fabricate old-school, ditch and run with the scripts out I-90 to the nearest.
Dean put Sammy to bed, stitched and doped, bed-n-breakfast quilt. Hit the access for the next white-spired with a war memorial and a bookstore, rejected mooncussers and spirit tales for aw, crap, some transcendentalist dudes, or the kind of poetry you read (if Sam) when haunted; all north, north and not--
you know, stopping for death.
*
Sister-blood was under Dean's fingernails. Manito, Sam said from the bed, death-spirit. Their darkness, their mother of all.
We're gonna get her back, Sammy, Dean said. He thought about cold bacon and cider doughnuts. He thought: do it. Put a hand to his brother's head like--
it might be another October, in someone's heaven other than theirs.
Outside the wind off the water; even these miles inward, inland, they'd smell oaks, and marsh-- and blood and the wind and the sea.
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<3!
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