Entangled Alliances | 1 of 3
Dean's supposed to be strengthening the Hunter-Witch alliance, not breaking it, but he wants to punch the ever-loving shit out of the prick in front of him.
"What is there to not understand?" he asks, glaring at the guy. "I have ID. I have references. I have a fucking invite, you moron. So let me the fuck in."
The guy takes a long drag of his cigarette, breathes out into Dean's face.
Dean grimaces and tightens his hands into fists, digging his nails into his palms. He can't give in. He can't and he won't. He's better than this punk, this Witch. He's a Hunter, an honest-to-fuck Winchester, and this guy isn't worth anything next to him. Dean settles down, measures the depth of this Witch's power, and sneers.
"You can breathe smoke into my face all you want," Dean says; he's speaking softly but there's no mistaking the menace in his tone. "But you and I both know I wouldn't even break a sweat Shielding your Casts. What's the Lady doing putting someone like you on the gate to her compound, huh? She hoping people underestimate her?"
The guy glares, flicks his cigarette to the ground. Dean can't help but feel victory curl in his gut.
"You have references and ID, I'm supposed to check 'em," the guy says, all business now. "And the invite, I have to check that too." He adds, almost reluctantly, "Not that anyone thinks you're lying. Just rules."
Handing them over, Dean watches as the guy glances over the three plastic-coated IDs, takes in the pictures and the detail, the signatures Cast by the High Witch whose power comes closest to that of the Hunters. Dean knows what the guy's reading, maybe holding in his hands for the first time ever: Class A Hunter, Class A Tracker, Class A Liaison. Dean's a genuine triple-threat, one of the few Triple Certs walking the planet.
The guy runs his finger down the invite next, and Dean sees golden light shoot from the page, the Witch's magic interacting with the Casting signature on the paper. The guy nods, looks over the references Dean has, and hands everything back.
"I apologise, Master Hunter," he says. Though he's standing straighter, the Witch still has a gleam of humour in his eyes, a laugh and joke brimming at the edges of his lips. If he weren't so damn annoying, if neither of them felt the need to posture, if Dean wasn't here on the second most unpleasant task he can think of, Dean might even find him good for a laugh. "Please, enter. I'll take you to the Lady's residence."
--
The city is nestled between a lake to the north and a curving river to the south. The Lady's compound, what should be the most protected part of the city, sits at the turn of the river, a sign of the power she commands just as much as her connection to the city is a sign of her strength. It takes a special bond for a High Witch to hold a city, one that speaks of blood and legacy and power just as much as money and sworn followers. For the Lady to have taken and to still hold a place as rife with history as Nouvelle Orleans for close to forty years means she's not one Dean wants to underestimate.
It's been easy to do just that, though; the city isn't guarded like Boston, isn't ringed with a wall and a moat like San Antone. The compound and the rest of Nouvelle Orleans are separated only by wards but those wards aren't visible; Dean had ignored the prick and studied the wards for the first ten minutes he'd been out of his Impala.
If there's one thing Dean knows, it's wards; his father taught him every trick in the book to see them, to get around them, to pull them down. The wards around the Lady's Compound, only Hunters and other Witches are able to see them. That means normal humans could pass through them whenever they wanted, not even knowing the wards are there, and Rogues would probably get shocked without knowing why if they tried to cross them.
Keeping Rogues out is a damn good thing in Dean's opinion but letting humans pass in and out, that's not secure at all. Added to that, Dean had walked -- driven, rather -- right up to the front door of the Lady's compound. He could have entered the city a different way, could have studied the wards in much closer detail and started tearing them down away from the Lady's eyes. Dean isn't sure how to interpret the Lady's choices, isn't sure what it means for humans or himself. She might not care about humans, which would be careless at the best of times, but whatever. Most of the High Witches are easily dismissive of humans. They aren't so quick to ignore Hunters, not usually. To not have lookouts watching for Hunters, that could prove disastrous for a Witch, even when the Hunter is there by direct invitation.
Either the Lady doesn't know Dean's here, something he finds highly unlikely, or she doesn't care, which would be incautious and not at all something he'd expect from her. Of course, it could also mean that other Hunters entered the city uninvited and she dealt with them well enough that Dean hasn't heard about them, not even as a training lesson. Her reputation would support that, he guesses; people seem to either love and respect the Lady or hate her, no middle ground.
Dean steps into the house after a minute of looking behind him, scanning the streets. The wards tingle as he passes through them, slide over his skin and around his hands. He thought he'd been prepared but Dean almost gasps, feeling the wards caress him, search out every aspect of his body and the unique skills that separate a Hunter from a normal human.
Dean takes everything back in that instant. These wards are the most subtle he's ever felt and, beneath that, the strongest. He gets the impression that anyone trying to cross them with negative thoughts toward the Lady will be forcefully rejected, that and held until a Witch can come to release them. Rogues won't feel an electric shock, they'll fry, which means they should be recognisable for Rogues. Witches can't create a Casting that a Rogue won't notice, no Witch ever has been able to do that.
And Hunters, well. Dean shivers, waits for the wards to finish gliding around him and retreat, having tested the invitation crumpled in Dean's hand, and only then follows the Witch through the house.
--
The guy leads Dean through the house, out into a courtyard that narrows into an alley, sliding between the buildings before connecting with a wide street. Dean glances around, takes in the compound. Already on edge from the feeling of those wards, Dean has to calm himself as he sees that the compound is different from the rest of the city, visibly so. He drove through a Nouvelle Orleans that was modern, mostly: houses built from brick and wood, neutral tones, plenty of one-way glass and locked doors.
The buildings that rise up on either side of him inside of the compound were designed in an old style. They're brightly painted, look to be in good condition, but the architecture's off, a style Dean connects with the south yet still somehow different, something older and bloodier. Every building, it seems, has a balcony and all of those are fenced in by the same wrought iron lining every doorway, each piece of metal formed into whimsical curlicues that vibrate with Castings to Dean's senses.
This would be a nightmare to attack, Dean thinks, if those balconies were filled by Witches at the peak of their Casting power; on the flip side, it must be reassuring to the Witches living here to know that even the architecture would help in their defence.
The balconies all seem empty at the moment, thankfully, though Dean gets the vague sense of Witches all around him, sleeping or resting, whatever they do when they aren't Casting. He tries to get a sense of how many there are, attempts to pick out individual signatures to discover what kind of Casting power the Lady might hold in her sworn followers, but he can't. Just like the power of the wards, that should be impossible.
Despite the cards he holds, despite his own reputation and even the reason he's here, Dean can't help tensing.
The guy leading him slows down, turns as if he felt Dean's anxiety. For all Dean knows, he has; the Lady's followers all have one trait in common, otherwise they'd be somewhere else, sworn to one of the other High Witches. "The Lady lives near the river," he says. "She likes to watch the sunrise over the water. I'm taking you there the fastest way, but it's still a good walk." He pauses, asks, "Is this your first time to Nouvelle Orleans?"
Dean snorts. "First time on the job," he says. "And first time inside the compound. I was here a long time ago, off-duty, once."
"How did you like it?" the guy asks.
"Look," Dean says, "you're trying to be nice, I get that. But just take me to the Lady and we'll be fine."
The guy shrugs, turns back around, and picks up the pace.
--
The Lady herself lives in a four-story mansion on the river, the walls broken up by numerous windows, curved arches, and even a set of palm trees growing on a roof terrace. Dean takes the whole thing in, head shaking, but doesn't say a word as the guy leads him to the front door.
Glass. There's so much glass here, so much light. The river sparkles, caught behind a ward; Dean watches as a duck paddles to the edge of the river and waddles off onto the roof of the building, presumably in search of food. He shakes his head, wonders just who the hell thought barricading the river back instead of leaving the city to nature was a good use of what had to be six strong Witches' worth of Casting power.
A different person's lounging in a chair outside the front door. She's gorgeous, would have to be, that and powerful, if she's been found worthy of guarding -- or even living in -- the Lady's personal residence: dirty-blonde hair that hangs straight over her shoulders and frames a thin face, big, soulful eyes, and a smile tip-tilted towards the river.
"This is Dean Winchester," the guy says. "He has an invitation from the Lady." Message delivered, the guy inclines his head in respect at the woman, in something else entirely toward Dean, and walks away.
The woman stands up. Dean looks her over, lets his eyes linger on the swell of her breasts and the curve of her hips. When he meets her eyes, she's smiling.
"My name is Lily," she says. "I'll take you to the Lady. She's been waiting." Dean raises an eyebrow in question and Lily says, "The General sent word via the Singer that you'd be coming. We expected you nearly a week ago."
Dean smiles, a jagged and sudden expression. "I caught up with a Rogue when I was skirting the edges of the Builder's territory," he says. "Dealing with it took a while."
Lily nods, her smile growing, parting her lips. Her teeth reflect the sun, the river, and look sharp.
--
Light, everywhere. That's Dean's first impression. His second, which comes quick on the heels of the first, is that the Lady lives in the midst of luxury. The walls gleam in the sunlight and bounce rainbows off of crystal chandeliers, prisms of sun that dance over dark-wooded furniture and a brightly polished tile floor. Dean hasn't seen fabric like this ever, lace and brocades and chaise cushions, not even in the Dreamer's private rooms. Only willpower keeps him from dawdling, from running his hands over every surface and trying to take in as much of this as he can.
Most of the doors are open. Dean glances in when he can and sees people in some of the rooms as Lily leads him towards the middle of the building and up a couple flights of stairs. His senses hum with Casting, even as the Lady's signature twines down the hallway and cocoons Dean in a web of power. He freezes where he's standing, lets the Lady taste him, search him, and can't help a sigh of relief when her power dissipates. He's worried, though; her power signature isn't the same one sustaining the wards. That's not at all traditional and anything not following protocol has the potential to get fucked to hell when it comes to High Witches.
"We're close," Lily says. "Right through that door," she adds, pointing at the end of the hallway, the closed door white and glimmering with sunshine, so at odds with the sour taste in Dean's mouth. He's here on the Lady's sufferance, at her own invitation and with references from her peers, and yet.
And yet.
There's always the chance with the High Witches that they'll change their minds in an instant, at the mercy of their whims. Dean would be a fool to say he's looking forward to this meeting, would be even more foolish to think he's safe.
"She's ready for you," Lily says, head tilted towards the door in a silent order though her tone of voice is more suggestive than commanding.
"You're not going?" Dean asks, hates himself for the way the question comes out a moment later.
Lily doesn't look as if she holds it against him. She simply shrugs and moves toward the wall, clearing a path for Dean. "I wasn't invited inside. You were."
Even the Lady's sworn followers know when to leave well enough alone, it seems.
Dean nods, takes one step forward, then another and another, until he's at the door. He can feel her on the other side of the wood, the atmosphere that every High Witch he's ever met creates simply by breathing. There's another sense in that room, though, another Witch with a Casting power Dean's never sensed before, languid and at rest even though it feels like it's under tight control. That signature intrigues him, is the one that convinces him to take a deep breath and go inside.
--
The door glides open effortlessly, and Dean steps into a well-lit room overflowing with couches and chairs, pillows artlessly thrown all over the floor, blankets and throws of some rich fabric covering every inch. It's a den that suits the Lady's power, the unique skill that makes her who and what she is. Dean's only surprised not to see other Witches and humans caught mid-coitus. He's heard rumours that the Lady can feed off of and replenish her power with the subconscious Casting energy produced during sex.
As he steps closer to the Lady's chair, he studies her, takes in the blonde hair, the soft blue eyes, the arch of her cheekbones, emphasised by the light streaming through the window, sun refracted by water. She's beautiful, almost too beautiful for Dean to look on for very long. Part of that, he knows, is her power, but the greater part belongs to her physical attributes and the way she highlights them: the symmetry of her face, the curve of her collarbone, framed by a shirt half-slid off one shoulder, the pendant of her necklace, an exact match to the colour of her eyes, resting in the hollow of her neck.
There's a guy sitting at the Lady's feet, one arm curled around her ankles, cheek pressed to her calf. One of her hands is tangled in his hair; Dean shifts on his feet, tells himself that he's uncomfortable seeing something intimate, not because the guy's Casting signature is way more enticing than the Lady's. Part of it is probably due to the reins the guy has on it, not letting it spill outwards from his body, but part of it is a smell itching Dean's senses, similar to a smell he can't quite remember but should know as well as he knows his own name.
He blinks, swallows and prays the Lady hasn't noticed him spending more time staring at the guy at her feet than he has at her. The smile on her face, the way she's obviously been watching him, means she's done more than just noticed.
If it were possible, Dean would kick himself.
"So this is the great Dean Winchester," the Lady says, her voice a soft croon as it fills the room, twists and turns around Dean. "Your reputation precedes you, Hunter."
Dean raises an eyebrow and resists the urge to look down at the guy. "As does yours, Lady." The words are true but the tone is cautious; no other Hunter has been invited this close to the Lady -- any Hunters who've made it this far without invitation have never been heard of at all. "Thank you for the invitation."
She laughs, takes the words as Dean had intended them, a reminder that she asked him to come and for a damn good reason beside. "Welcome to Nouvelle Orleans, Hunter," the Lady says. Her tone sends chills down Dean's back; he'd ask her to stop but knows she probably can't turn the Casting off. "I am pleased you accepted my invitation, though the necessity of extending it is truly saddening."
There's no way to know if she's talking about the Rogue who might be in her city or the way Dean's last Witch partner left him. He hopes it isn't the latter. "If I find out you're hiding the Rogue," Dean says, "I won't be very happy." Not being happy is something of a massive understatement: her hiding the Rogue would put Dean in the unenviable task of Hunting the Lady, something akin to suicide in her home city.
The Lady laughs. The sound strokes fingertips soft as silk across Dean's hipbones, trails tantalisingly on the path of hair leading down from his navel. "The General warned me of your love for straight talk," she says. "Otherwise I think I should be displeased at the assumption."
Dean opens his mouth, but the guy at the Lady's feet ducks his head and smiles. Dean's gaze follows the guy, eyes picking out the way the guy closes his eyes and practically starts to purr as the Lady scratches her nails on his scalp. The expression on the guy's face makes Dean rock in place; the dimples just about kill him.
The Lady clears her throat and Dean flushes, turning his eyes back to her. Her smile is gone and she's leaning forward, intent. "As you prefer straight talk, I, too, shall indulge in it. The Rogues have taken advantage of our differences, Hunters and Witches. They've pitted us against one another. An alliance that began strong has been weakening over the past four generations. Today it hangs by a mere thread. You know this and I know this," she says abruptly, no more games. Dean wishes he knew what it was he'd done to merit this kind of straightforwardness; it'd be good to know in the future.
"It has been," he agrees, "and I do." Dean's wary, body loose and ready for whatever might happen. No one, least of all a Triple Cert Hunter and a High Witch, wants to think about what might happen if the alliance breaks, least of all acknowledge it in conversation. For her to bring it up so bluntly cannot be a good sign.
"Almost six hundred years," the Lady says thoughtfully, looking down at the guy sitting on the floor. "An alliance between two factions independent of humanity, humanity's warriors and its mages, to protect humans from the Rogues and ourselves from each other."
Dean frowns. "I know our history," he says. "My history. A Winchester was at the first Battle of London, fought right at Henry's side against the first wave of Rogues. We've been Hunters ever since."
The Lady nods, blinks slowly. "You come from an illustrious line, Dean. Two royal decrees, three Medals of Honour, and every Winchester for the past eight generations has held a Triple Cert. Your own accomplishments are such that everyone from Rogue leaders to the Dreamer herself has been searching for your mother, in hopes that breeding her could produce someone with even half your talent."
"A good thing my father kept his mouth shut," Dean says, jaw clenching. "Can we move on, Lady?"
With a smile and an incline of her head, the Lady says, "You are one of the few brave enough to work with us against the Rogues, one of the few we trust to do so with honour. I spoke with the General and he reiterated that the last Witch you took on as a partner was a coward and too chained to both his city and his oath to leave in Hunt of this Rogue. Your last five Witch partners have left you, most of them before the completion of the various Hunts you took them on. The Dreamer has said that the desertion of you by our people has not been your fault. You will find us different, Dean Winchester, those of us who make our home at the bend of the river. And maybe, just maybe, our difference will be enough to strengthen that which has been faltering."
Dean studies the Lady, searches her expression for any hint of prophecy. He doesn't find it, which has him saying, a moment later, "You've spoken to the Dreamer. About this Hunt?"
The Lady sits back in her chair and hums. "Perhaps," she says. "And perhaps not."
If there's one thing Dean hates more than a mystery, he hasn't found it yet.
"This is Samuel," the Lady goes on, nodding down at the guy sitting at her feet.
Dean follows the angle of her nod, lets his eyes get tangled up with Samuel's. Green, feline, something powerful lurking in their depths. Dean feels his dick throb and hopes against hope that she's not about to tell him what he thinks she's about to tell him.
The Lady's laugh comes like a surprise, the tinkling noise of a sudden rainfall. "If I thought another would be better suited to you, Master Hunter, I would have chosen differently. But Samuel has strengths which will complement yours. I believe you will find him eminently suitable. Not to mention," she says, tone lowering, feeding the pounding of blood in Dean's ears, "he is not near so strait-laced as the last Witch you were paired with. Samuel bends exceedingly well. Flexibility can be important at times, as you well know."
Double entendres all over the place, and Dean can't even muster up the scorn to roll his eyes, not as he's watching Samuel stand up. The guy unfolds himself and keeps going, is taller than Dean when he's vertical and standing there as if under inspection.
Dean takes the opportunity, checks out the way Samuel's clothes hug his body but won't hinder it; jeans, the same as Dean, which should serve them well as they Hunt the Rogue, and a t-shirt, concession to the wet heat of Nouvelle Orleans. His eyes linger on Samuel's hips, the bare feet, the way the t-shirt hangs from broad shoulders and highlights muscled arms. Samuel's hair is long and curling, a style no Hunter would wear out of pure self-preservation, but it looks good on Samuel, suits the angle of his cheekbones and the shape of his eyes.
"You don't have a problem working with a Hunter," Dean asks. Samuel shakes his head, so Dean presses, asks, "You don't have a problem working with a Winchester?"
"If I had a problem," Samuel replies, "the Lady wouldn't have asked me to consider the option, and I wouldn't have volunteered."
His voice is smooth like honey; Dean gets distracted by the sound long enough that there's a delay on his brain processing the words. "You volunteered," he finally repeats, tone dazed. "None of the other High Witches asked for volunteers. They just picked one of their oath-bound Witches and passed them off to me."
Samuel's smile, like the Lady's, is feline, but where that smile looks obscenely predatory on her, it fits Samuel, seems at home on his lips. "Maybe that's why none of them have lasted more than a fortnight with you," he says.
The words aren't meant to sting but they still hurt, prick at all the places where Dean's heard others talk, Witches and Hunters and humans, wondering what it is about him, wondering how he can scare off something like a Witch, wondering if he's as evil as a Rogue.
"Maybe," Samuel goes on, "if other Witches had had a choice, you wouldn't be here, now. I'll take their loss for my gain."
Dean narrows his eyes, stares at Samuel. "You hold me back, I'll leave you behind."
"Like you left the Singer's choice," Samuel says. "And, let me guess: if I can't handle the Hunt or you, you'll bring me back to the Lady's feet yourself, the way you took both of the Element's choices back to her in chains. And if the Rogue runs and I can't stand to leave the shadow of Nouvelle Orleans, you'll carry on without me."
"The way I carried on without the General's pick, yeah," Dean interrupts, finishing the sentence. It hurts to have his failures flung back in his face; he could do without this city-bound Witch naming them off one by one.
Samuel holds Dean's gaze, returns Dean's glare with an even temper and a slight gleam to his eyes that Dean can't break down into recognisable parts.
"You're a Hunter," Samuel says, shrugging once. "If I jeopardise the Hunt, I'll deserve whatever you do to me. Just give me a chance before you write me off like one of the others."
Dean shakes his head. "I'll give you a chance when you earn it."
Samuel grins. "Deal. You hungry?"
Dean blinks. Just like that, his audience with the Lady is over and he's being ushered outside.
--
Samuel walks next to him, long strides eating up the sun-dampened hallway, long enough that Dean doesn't have to worry about moving too fast. Samuel will be able to keep up with him; that's a relief to know.
"Where are we going?" Dean asks. "You said something about food."
"I have a kitchen in my rooms," Samuel replies, briefly turning to look at Dean. A brief look is all it takes, sending blood rushing through Dean's body, feeling the weight of Samuel's gaze on him.
Dean expects them to head out of the Lady's private residence but Samuel leads him down one set of stairs and back toward the centre of the building. He frowns when Samuel opens a door and ushers him inside, eyes widening when he realises what's going on. "These are your rooms," Dean says. "You live here."
Samuel turns, eyebrow raised, and asks, "Is that a problem?"
"No," Dean says, still half-gaping. "I just. You volunteered and she let you? Unless you do things differently here, only the strongest oath-bound followers of a High Witch live in the private residence, which, fine, but only an heir lives below the inner rooms."
"I know," Samuel says, grinning. "I think I know better than you, Hunter."
Dean shakes his head. Sure, he's felt Samuel's signature but there's been no hint of the type of power Samuel must be able to call up and Cast, no aura, no sign at all. "Why didn't you say anything? And why the fuck would she agree to this when it might mean leaving the city?"
"The Lady's feud with the Element and the Singer might be public knowledge, but she gets along quite well with the Dreamer." Samuel's walking away, towards an arched doorway that Dean hadn't noticed before. Dean scrambles to keep up, feels even more out of his depth now than he did driving into Nouvelle Orleans.
"They have talked about this Hunt, then," Dean says. Samuel gestures at a chair; Dean falls into it before his knees can give out. Dean's met the Dreamer, likes her well enough even if it's impossible to forget that she -- and every single one of her oath-bound Witches -- reads the future as easily and comfortably as Dean loads a gun.
Samuel opens an icebox, takes out a couple covered dishes, reaches into one of the cabinets for plates. "The Dreamer found a name for you but you were already on the road. She sent a message via one of the Singer's Witches."
Dean leans forward in his chair, wishes Samuel would stop fiddling with the food and turn around. He'd like to look at Samuel's face, watch for a reaction as he asks, carefully, "The Dreamer found a name? The Rogue I'm Hunting, she found a name for him?"
"The Rogue we are Hunting," Samuel corrects, flicking his gaze at Dean for a brief moment, too quickly for Dean to read Samuel's expression. "It's another reason the Lady's allowing me to go with you."
Letting the heir leave isn't a decision to be made lightly; Dean knows this and so will everyone else. It sends a clear sign that the Lady trusts both her heir and Dean, but it also means that whichever Rogue is out there has to be high-ranking. "Who is it?" Dean asks.
Samuel stops what he's doing, brings a glass over to the table and sets it down in front of Dean. Hands empty, Samuel rests them on the back of another chair and twines his fingers together. "Azazel," Samuel says.
Dean forgets to breathe.
Azazel's a legend, one of the most powerful Rogues to walk the earth. Rumour of Rogue hierarchy puts him third behind Lucifer and Lilith; there's an old grimoire under Hunter lock and Witch key in Venice that seems to suggest the three are actually a triumvirate but no one's found proof. Not for lack of trying, though -- Dean's family has been Hunting Azazel for generations, almost since the beginning, and knows more about him than anyone else, with the possible exception of the Dreamer.
"Did the Dreamer have a location?" Dean asks, hoping beyond hope. He hadn't realised Azazel was the Rogue whose trail he'd caught. If he had, he never would've stopped to deal with the one in the mountains. Five days, that one cost him, and it was such a low-level Rogue that.
Dean stops mid-thought and Samuel asks, "What is it?" gently, as if he knows that Dean's mind is whirling at Hunt-speed, tracing connections and reading patterns, putting his Hunter's genes to use. He doesn't answer right away and Samuel doesn't push, doesn't hardly move. In the back of Dean's mind, underneath the furious thinking, he's come to the conclusion that Samuel's already better than the other Witches he's been paired with simply for waiting, not badgering and pestering.
"I found one in the mountains, on my way down," Dean says. "Thought it was careless but now I think it had to be a decoy. I've been Hunting Azazel for weeks and never knew it, so he put one of his underlings in my path to distract me." Dean stands up, ignores the drink on the table as he starts to pace. "He's been here, if not in the city then nearby; his tracks were too clear for anything else. He knew I'd be right behind him, which means he came here for a reason."
"Why here?" Samuel asks, leaning forward, fingers grasping the chair as he lays a look on Dean that's sharp enough to flay skin from bones. "What reason? Is there someone here he wanted to talk to, something here he needs?"
Dean shakes his head, taps his fingers against his leg. "I bet he knew the General's Witch failed. This far into the Lady's territory, he had to know I'd be coming here to ask her for a Witch. Whatever it is, it has to be important. Otherwise he would've headed out of the Lady's territory, not deeper into it, away while I asked for a new partner." Dean stops where he's at, asks, "Anything here in the city you can think of that would make Azazel take a chance like that?"
Samuel looks at him, expression closed off and eyes shuttered. "No," he says. "I can't of anything."
"I'm going," Dean says, coming to a decision that wasn't at all hard to make. "The trail's getting colder and I have to go now before it fades any more. Whether you're ready or not."
Samuel sighs, glances at the food and Casts a ward around it before smiling at Dean, a predatory and near-feral expression that sends goosebumps of want shivering over Dean's skin. "Let's go, then," Samuel purrs, and leads Dean out of the Lady's residence and into a day shining bright with sun.
--
Lily's not at the door but someone else is, a tall guy who reminds Dean of the Witch the General assigned to him. Jake had been good in his city but not much use outside of it and so Dean looks this guy up and down, waiting for Samuel to say anything before drawing a conclusion.
"Nathan," Samuel says, frowning. "Where's Lily?"
Nathan smiles, leans back against the wall and folds his arms across his chest. "The Lady needed her for Casting," Nathan says. The sense of his signature makes Dean want to vomit; he barely holds it in before Samuel's surrounds him like a breath of fresh air. Dean looks between the two of them, eyes narrowed.
"Be vigilant," Samuel says, after a long moment of staring. Nathan gives Samuel a mock salute, clearly dismissing him, not even bothering to acknowledge Dean save for the tendrils of his power still attempting to snake their way around Dean.
Being a Hunter, Dean can feel them, knows just where they are and how much power Nathan is Casting into them, just like now he'll always know Nathan's signature, no matter where he senses it again, and how powerful it could become with training. Dean is on the verge of turning around and baring his teeth; Nathan will never be all that powerful and his taunting is petty at best.
Before he can do anything, though, Samuel touches his arm and shakes his head, clearly cautioning Dean to hold himself in check. It's the better thing to do, but Dean hates that a Witch is rebuking him into behaving.
Dean stomps off without giving Nathan or Samuel a piece of his mind, something he's relatively proud of himself for achieving.
It's only as they're leaving the Lady's compound, walking past the same cigarette-smoking prick from before and getting into Dean's Impala, that he realises: Samuel covered Dean with enough of his signature to blow away Nathan's and yet there wasn't enough of Samuel's signature to find the depth of Samuel's power, that or how much power he could call in a Casting. Nathan never gave a sign of recognising it, either.
--
Dean worries on that piece of knowledge like food caught in his back teeth for two hours of driving south, along the sinuous curves of the river, before asking, "Can you Shield yourself?"
Sam has been staring out of the window for most of the trip, looking around like he hasn't seen this area of the Lady's territory before. It's possible, especially considering he's the Lady's heir; she might not want to let Samuel out of her compound because of his connection to her but she's also probably been training him every day of his life. What he's been learning, Dean would love to find out, can't help flicking his eyes over to Samuel every so often to watch the smile play on Samuel's lips or the way Samuel's hair shines in the sun. Dean's been trying to look deeper as well, calling on all of his Hunting abilities to try and crack Samuel's signature. He's no closer now than he was when he first met the Witch.
"Only Hunters can Shield," Samuel replies. His tone isn't frosted over with disdain, isn't panicky, either. "It's why the Rogues have been trying to break the alliance almost since its formation."
"Yeah, I know," Dean snaps. "A Witch has the power to take a Rogue down but a Rogue can sense a Witch from a hundred miles away, so the Hunter tracks the Rogue and Shields the Witch. You don't need to give me a history lesson, okay? Just answer the fucking question: can you Shield yourself?"
Samuel's silent. Dean waits, drives and seethes, and is just about to ask again when Samuel asks, "How did you destroy Alistair?"
Dean's heart skips a beat. There's an official story, the one that says he Hunted Alistair into a trap and drained the Rogue with sunlight until he starved to death, and there's the unofficial story, the truth. That's been much harder to hide and could, potentially, get his certifications taken away, not to mention his life.
Samuel knowing enough to ask that question means that someone, somewhere, has guessed. Either that or the Dreamer knows. Dean isn't sure which possibility would be worse.
"I laid out a few dozen traps and Hunted him into a corner," Dean says. "Everyone knows that; Alistair was a most-wanted. But that doesn't answer my question. Can you Shield yourself?"
"Only Hunters can Shield," Samuel says, again. "And I'm a Witch. So no, I can't Shield myself. Can you Cast?"
"No," Dean says. The denial comes out clear and strong and perfectly timed.
Samuel hums, turns to look back out the window. "Well, if you can't Cast and I can't Shield, it's a good thing we have each other, isn't it."
Dean bites his tongue to keep from saying anything.
--
Dean drives until the road turns to mud beneath his tyres, stops the car and gets out, stretching. Samuel follows his example and Dean can hear the sound of joints popping in and amongst the other sounds: the river lapping against trees and grasses, the hiss of snakes and the humming of insects. He feels a cool breeze a moment later and turns to look at Samuel.
"You just Cast a ward?" he asks, eyes narrowed to help block out the sun. When Samuel nods, Dean hums thoughtfully, then asks, "Can you Cast a bridge to another Hunter? He should be somewhere in the Element's territory though I don't know where, exactly."
Samuel looks up at the sky; Dean follows his gaze, can't pick out a cloud as far as he can see, just a sight-blinding blue. "I can try," Samuel finally says. "If you give me his name and any kind of detail about him."
Detail, singular. Only Hunters can track that narrowly, that well, though Dean wants to roll his eyes at himself. Samuel asked for a name as well, and names have power, are usually all a Witch needs to Cast someone's death -- or good fortune, if they're so inclined.
"I call him Bobby but his name's Robert Singer," Dean says. "Robert Steven Singer. He's like an uncle to me; my father was good friends with him. He has a habit of keeping Cast-strong water with him in case he runs into any Rogues unexpectedly."
Prepared to keep going, Dean stops as Samuel holds up a hand. He looks amused. "That should be enough," he says, "though its strange to be Casting to someone named Singer and not have it be the Singer."
Dean snorts, says, "Yeah, we've had that discussion before."
Sam closes his eyes, lets his hands rest at his sides, muscles relaxed. "Robert Steven Singer," Samuel murmurs. Dean can sense a whipline of Casting power thread out from Samuel and start spooling north, widening as it goes. Still, he can't find the depth of that signature, can't follow it past a certain point even though he knows it's still going.
The thread Samuel's weaving out is loose, the Witch pushing out more and more power as the Casting takes longer, but then it tightens, pulls taut so fast that Samuel sways on his feet. Dean watches sympathetically and wishes he could help even though he knows it isn't a good idea.
"Robert Steven Singer," Samuel says.
The thread thrums, pulls even tighter, and then Dean hears Bobby saying, "--forsaken Witch is trying to call me, huh? How'd you get my name? Who's there?"
Samuel nods so Dean steps closer, talks into the line Samuel's Cast north. "It's me, Bobby."
A slight pause, as if the words need time to travel, and Bobby says, "Dean? That you? Who're you with? And where the hell are you?"
Dean grins, can't help it. "I'm two hours south of the Lady's city," he says. "With one of her Witches. Kid named Samuel's Casting the bridge. How are you?"
"Boy," Bobby says, "don't be asking me how I am. Tell me why you asked a Witch to Cast a bridge across the nation before the kid drops from exhaustion."
"Across the nation?" Dean asks, glancing at Samuel. He doesn't look tired, the way Jake did after Casting bridges, and those were to other Witches, not even Hunters or humans. Dean pokes and prods at Samuel's signature again, still can't find anything. Samuel opens his eyes as if he can feel Dean searching and grins, no sign of strain around his eyes or mouth. "Where the hell are you?"
Bobby mutters something too quietly for Dean to hear but Samuel bites back a smile or a snicker, maybe both. Dean raises an eyebrow and Samuel puts on his best innocent look just as Bobby says, "I'm in the Planter's city. Why the hell are you calling me?"
As much as Dean wants to ask what Bobby's doing all the way up in Seattle, he's not foolish enough to argue with Bobby's tone. Whatever it is has to be important otherwise there's no way in hell Bobby'd be that far away from home. "The Dreamer found a name for the Rogue I'm Hunting," Dean says. "It's Azazel." He waits for Bobby's indrawn breath before asking, "Can you think of any reason why he'd come down here when he knew I was on my way?"
There's a long pause before Bobby says, "Your daddy went down that way, way back. Four times. There might be something he left in the Lady's territory, could be Azazel wants to get it before you do."
Samuel makes a thoughtful noise. Dean looks over at the Witch, who shrugs as if he knows what Dean's asking before Dean can even part his lips. "I'd have to ask the Lady if she remembers him," Samuel says. "I certainly don't. I'm probably not old enough."
"Could Azazel have walked through the compound wards?" Bobby asks.
Dean understands the real question Bobby's asking: if it's possible Azazel met with the Lady, had some business with her. Dean certainly hopes not, not when that would mean the Lady's aiding the Rogues. Still, Dean remembers those wards, the depth and near-sentience they possessed. "Bobby," he says, "they would have fried any Rogue, I don't care how powerful. I don't think Lucifer could've walked through them."
Bobby curses a long string of words that leave Samuel with a faintly impressed expression. "There's no way," Bobby starts to say.
"I'm a Winchester, Bobby," Dean says, cutting Bobby off. "I know you don't put much stock in our creds, but you know how Dad trained me. Those wards were Cast by the strongest Witch I've ever sensed and whoever it was had the help of a Hunter. Azazel isn't crossing them any time soon."
"Then ask the Lady," Bobby finally says, after long minutes of silence where the only thing Dean can hear is the drone of nature all around him. "Or use your Witch to find whatever your daddy left. John would've Shielded it but if you help."
Bobby trails off. Dean takes a breath, exhales, takes another. "You don't know anything," Dean says, pressing. "Dad never said anything to you about Nouvelle Orleans."
"Dean," Bobby says, "your daddy and I never talked much about anything after he Hunted my wife. Now cut the line and let me get back to work."
Samuel waits, gazing at Dean with his green, fox-like eyes, and holds the bridge until Dean nods and turns away. Bobby doesn't know anything, that much is clear.
--
Dean doesn't say anything until Samuel pulls back every part of the bridge he Cast. It takes a while, easily four times as long as it took to send the bridge; Dean wonders just how much power Samuel expended and how he's putting it all back into his body. When the last segment returns, Samuel stumbles, rests a hand on the Impala before he can fall over, and bends at the waist, panting.
"Gonna make it?" Dean asks, raising an eyebrow. "Because I have to go back and talk to the Lady."
Samuel looks up, frown marring his forehead. Dean itches to wipe the furrows straight; he keeps his hands to himself.
"Why did we drive down here?" Samuel asks. "I mean, if you're just going to turn around and head right for Nouvelle Orleans, it seems like a waste of a trip." Sam stops there, stands up though his breathing is still heavy, laboured, and looks honestly puzzled.
"Because I have what I need," Dean replies. He crouches down, scans the ground, and picks up a small pebble, Shielding it before it touches his skin. He offers it to Samuel, who shakes his head and steps back, teeth bared, apparently before he realises what he's doing. "You can feel it," Dean says.
Samuel swallows, eyes caught on the rune scratched into the stone. "Witch," he whispers, the honeyed tone of his voice gone, a cat-scratch of anger taking its place.
Dean frowns, glances down at the stone in his hand. "Rogue," he says, the one word taking on the tone of an argument. "This was inscribed by a Rogue. It's what we call an anchor-point. Azazel can travel between anchor-points, sort of like the astral projection practiced by the Singer, but Azazel moves his entire body, not just his words or his voice. We call it Shifting. Only the higher-up Rogues can do it. My great-grandfather found out Azazel had the ability. I take this, he can't Shift here anymore."
"That might be an anchor-point," Samuel says, but before Dean can state that he damn well knows his own work, Samuel adds, "but there's Casting power all over the thing. A Rogue inscribed it, sure, Azazel, whatever, but he had help from a Witch. Either that or he was riding a Witch when he planted it."
"You're sure," Dean says.
Samuel finally tears his eyes away from the pebble. He watches Dean as he reaches out, lets his hand hover above the stone. A cloud of grey and black power seeps out and surrounds the stone before Samuel pushes it back in.
"Black's the Rogue," Samuel says, "and the grey, that's the Witch."
Hoping against hope, Dean asks, "Do you recognise the Witch? This close to Nouvelle Orleans, it might be one of the Lady's." Dean's got the signature now but he doesn't have a person to match it with and Sam might be --.
No. Wait. Dean focuses on the stone, pushes aside the Rogue's sense for now and focuses on the Witch's.
"Jake," he breathes. "It matches Jake's signature."
"Jake," Samuel echoes. His voice is hollow, waiting for something to fill it, to fill him. "The one who abandoned you and the Hunt to remain in the General's territory."
Dean nods, scowling. It would explain a lot, actually, if Jake was aiding the Rogue.
Samuel stands there for a moment, then another and another, before he turns toward the north, looks at the sky. Dean can feel Samuel gathering his power, ready to Cast. He reaches out, touches Samuel's shoulder, breaking the Cast before it begins. The Witch pauses, waits.
"We'll tell the Lady," Dean says, picking and choosing his words carefully. "We have to tell her, and we have to ask her about my father, and we'll need to contact the Singer to pass the message on to the General. Besides," he says, aiming for levity, "you can't track Jake from here and you don't have the power to kill him over this kind of distance."
Samuel's smile, the one he gives Dean as he coils his power back under his control, is as predatory as any Master Hunter, predatory and deadly. "Of course," Samuel says. "I'm only a Witch, after all."
Samuel opens the car door and gets inside, closes the door softly where Dean had been expecting a slam. Surprised as much by that as he was by the venom in Samuel's voice, Dean can only stand there like an idiot. Trouble is brewing and the sensation of it sits in Dean's belly like a rock.
"Well, great," he mutters, before trudging around the car. "Just fucking great."
Samuel shouldn't have been offended at Dean's assumptions. It takes power for a Witch to Cast death at another Witch, especially at a distance from Nouvelle Orleans to Boston, doubly especially when such a curse would have to travel across territory and city wards, not to mention mountains and forests and cities packed with humans. On top of that, Samuel would have to Cast a spell to track the Witch first, and all of that after holding open a cross-country bridge for ten minutes. If Samuel's offended because Dean was right, that's one thing. No one likes being reminded of their limitations. But if he was offended because Dean was wrong, well.
Dean doesn't want to consider what that means about the kind of power Samuel has under his Casting control.
It's the only thing he can think about for the entire trip back to Nouvelle Orleans.
Part Two