Entangled Alliances | 2 of 3
Part One
There's someone different waiting at the entrance to the compound. She's young, can't be more than fifteen, and she smiles when she sees Samuel, wraps her arms around his waist and squeezes. Samuel places a hand on the girl's skull, hugs her back and says, gently, "Hey, Rosie."
She looks up at him, and Dean watches in puzzlement as Samuel looks down at her. Neither of them say a word. He waits, confusion turning to anger as the seconds turn to minutes and Azazel's trail grows colder and colder. Finally he reaches out, almost reels backwards when he feels the strength of the bridge Cast between them. Samuel's signature is one he's gotten used to over the past four hours, has felt wrapped around him since Samuel Cast a ward south of the city, but Rosie's is strong for such a child.
For a moment, Dean wonders if her power is the one holding the wards up, but the wards spark and glitter against Dean's senses and her power is close but not the same.
"We'll be quick," Samuel finally says, patting Rosie.
Dean sees the girl fall back from Samuel, reluctance all over her face. He doesn't say anything, not when Samuel leads him through the wards and into the compound, heading for the Lady's residence, not until they're three streets closer to the river.
"She seems young," Dean says, almost reluctantly. "Has she sworn her oath to the Lady?"
Samuel glances at him, looks back down the street. "We aren't monsters, no matter what Hunters say or think," he replies. "A child's a child, no matter her gifts, and the loyalty oath is voluntary."
Dean winces, wishes he could take back the words, wishes he could rewind time. Samuel's pissed off and the curlicues of power drifting around Dean are poised, ready to strike at any second. Still, the power is there protecting him, so Samuel can't be too upset. Either way, Dean wishes that the power Cast in his direction would retract the fangs he can feel, searching for a victim.
"You're close," he says, desperately trying to back himself out of a corner. "A bridge strong enough to communicate telepathically; even the Singer's sworn Witches can't all do that. How long have you known her?"
Samuel glances at Dean, then over his shoulder, back in Rosie's direction though they've moved too far to see her. "Since she was an infant," Samuel finally says.
Dean pushes because he can hear the edge of a story under Sam's hesitation. "How'd she come here?"
"A Hunter left her at our wards," Samuel says, blunt for once. "Her parents were killed by a Rogue and Rosie barely escaped with her life."
A low whistle is Dean's only response. Samuel seems relieved that Dean's not going to press any harder.
--
Samuel walks past Lily, back at the door and reading a book, without saying a word. Her face is pale, drained of colour, as Dean follows Samuel. He doesn't know why, doesn't know why the other Witches they see take one look at Samuel and disappear as fast as they can.
It's not until Nathan steps out from behind a door that Dean feels some echo of the power Samuel holds here, nothing metaphysical, simply political. Nathan sneers, opens his mouth, and Samuel merely says, "Don't," without stopping. Nathan stops, doesn't give way but doesn't say what he was about to, either.
They head for the stairs and, halfway up, Dean mutters, "Couldn't you've done that earlier?"
Samuel's reply is immediate: "If I did what I wanted with him, he'd be dead a hundred times over."
Yeah, that sounds about right. Dean can feel Samuel's Casting power turn into tendrils of barbed wire that snake out from Samuel's body and clear a path down the hall. No humans would be able to sense that power but they don't come across any more Witches and Dean's sure any sensible Hunter would be packing on protection charms left, right, and centre.
Dean doesn't, not when that same power is clouding around him, as soft as silk.
--
Samuel knocks once on the door to the Lady's audience chamber but doesn't wait for an invitation. He opens the door, walks in, and waits for Dean to follow before closing the door behind them. Dean steps forward, then, and Samuel stands back, as if he's waiting for something.
"You left, and now you have returned to us," the Lady says, eyes glancing between the two of them even as Dean can feel her power glide outwards from her body. "So soon, so quickly. Why is that, Dean Winchester?"
Dean resists the urge to bare his teeth at the Lady, knows it would be suicide to do so, especially with Samuel's Casting power still tense and searching for a target, the Lady's crawling daintily along the floor and walls. The Lady inclines her head the smallest amount, enough for Dean to notice. She knows how upset Samuel is.
"You should know half the reason for that, Lady," Dean replies, even as she's stretching out one hand and Samuel's brushing past Dean to grasp her hand with his, to kneel at her feet and rest his forehead against her legs. "Your Casting signature spreads into Nouvelle Orleans and the surrounding areas. In order to Hunt Azazel with this much of a time-delay, I need clean air to catch his paths. The other half of it concerns this," he adds, holding out the anchor-point.
The Lady glances at it and Dean can feel her power dance through Samuel's and swirl around the stone, careful to stay outside of Dean's Shield but close enough to taste the Witch's signature. "An anchor-point, this close to my city," she murmurs. Dean's taken off-guard; she knows what it is. He hadn't expected she would. "Thank you for removing it," she says.
Dean nods. "You're welcome." His eyes flick down to Samuel, curled so tight at the Lady's feet, and he adds, "I didn't recognise the Witch on it, at first. Samuel did and he lifted enough of the Rogue's power for me to scent the Witch. I know him. His name's Jake, he's one of the General's."
"The same one who refused to leave the General's city in Hunt of Azazel," she murmurs, hums thoughtfully. "The one who abandoned you." She twines her hand in Samuel's hair, tugs his head upwards to look down at him. "You haven't done anything precipitous, have you?" she asks Samuel.
Samuel's power finally settles, circles into tight bunches and disappears back under the same tight control Dean noticed when he first met the Witch, all except for the ward still hovering around Dean. It's almost as if Samuel's forgotten about it, that or it's become second-nature to leave it where it is. "No, my Lady," Samuel says, almost quiet enough to be a whisper. "Dean stopped me."
The Lady raises an eyebrow, looks up at Dean before returning her gaze back to Samuel. "A better match than I had thought." She pauses, and when she speaks again, Dean knows she's asking him, "There's something else, it seems?"
"My father," Dean replies. "A friend of the family said he came here, to see you and Nouvelle Orleans, four times. Did he leave anything here? Anything that might explain why Azazel would risk your power and my skill to visit Nouvelle Orleans?"
That question makes the Lady look up, away from Samuel. Her eyes , a blue the colour of the sky, meet Dean's and Cast power out, around Dean. She can't get close, though, not with Samuel's wards still covering Dean from head to toe. She doesn't seem displeased about that.
The Lady smiles, a small, secretive expression, and looks back down at her heir. "I met your father, yes," she says. "And he would be proud to see you now, what you've become. To answer your question: John Winchester left things here but nothing Azazel could hope to take from me. He took things away with him as well, but those are safe from Azazel's touch. If the Rogue came here to test that, he left disappointed, I can guarantee."
"You're not going to tell me what those things are," Dean says, sighing, resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. His head aches with all of the power the Lady's Cast about the room, from sensing all of the Witches here, from another tangle to a mystery without end. "Well, as long as you can guarantee their safety, I'll accept that."
The Lady lets go of Samuel's hair, scratches his scalp then makes a shooing motion. Samuel stands, moves back to stand at Dean's right, close enough for Dean to feel the heat rising from Samuel's body. There's no trace of the Witch's power, though, something that alternately thrills and terrifies Dean; this close, after all that Samuel's expended in the past few hours, he should be able to get something, anything.
"With that in mind, then. What will you do next, Hunter?" she asks.
Dean blinks, startled out of his contemplation of the Witch standing next to him. "The anchor-point has enough of Azazel's scent on it for me to track," he says, slowly, thinking as he speaks. "With Samuel's help, I'm sure we can narrow down a trail. I just don't know where it'll lead."
"In that case," Samuel says, "I'd like permission to leave your territory if it should become necessary."
The Lady looks at Samuel; Dean's convinced she's going to refuse. Letting the heir out of the compound, even out of the city, is one thing, bad enough, but out of the territory? There's never been precedent before, not in any generation in any country back to the first Battle of London and the rise of the Rogues.
"Granted," the Lady finally says, leaning back in her chair, gazing at them thoughtfully as her power twists and turns between them, around them. "I give you leave to contact the Singer and spread the word."
Samuel bows from the waist, a curiously old-fashioned gesture that Dean doesn't even try to echo. Instead, he nods, takes two steps back before turning his back on her.
They're almost out of the audience chamber when she says, "And Dean?" Dean stops, looks over his shoulder. The Lady is smiling, fingers steepled as she watches them. "Call him Sam."
--
Samuel -- Sam -- leads the way to his rooms; Dean follows, quiet and thoughtful. It's not until they're inside, safe behind closed doors and thrumming wards, that Dean says, "She knows something."
"She's the Lady," Sam replies. He says that as if it's answer enough, as if it explains so much and covers so many things. The problem is that Sam's right. She's the Lady. She needs no other reason to keep her secrets. None of the High Witches need reasons for anything they do. If Sam becomes a High Witch himself, he'll be just the same.
Dean finds himself unsettled at the thought.
"We should rest up before we hit the road," Dean finally says, watching as Sam bends over to pull some food from the bottom drawer of the icebox. The food from before is gone; Dean doesn't ask what happened to it. "I don't know when we'll get a chance to sleep next."
"You think we can afford to lose the time?" Sam asks in reply, standing up, hands loaded with fruit. He drops everything onto a counter, grabs a knife from a chopping block, and starts carving pieces of fruit. "Not that I'm, y'know. You're the Hunter. I just thought we were in a hurry."
Dean's eyes are caught on the way Sam handles the knife, large hands wrapping around the curve of an apple, long fingers moving the chopped pieces into a glass bowl. "I have an anchor-point now," Dean finally replies. "That'll hold enough of his signature to last three weeks. We have time."
Sam turns, gives Dean a shadowed look. "I only have one bed. And the couch isn't comfortable."
A swallow, and Dean says, "There'll be closer quarters on the Hunt." He ignores the wave of heat that statement sends through his body, doesn't put too much stock into the curious light of Sam's eyes. Instead, he asks, "What's one of the Lady's Witches doing with one bed, anyway?"
"I might be one of the Lady's sworn followers," Sam says, "with all that entails, but it doesn't mean I'm a slut, Dean. There's no one here I care to take pleasure with."
Dean tilts his head, watches as Sam turns back to the counter, drizzling some sort of sauce over the fruit. "I didn't mean to offend you," he offers. "I'm just curious. I thought the Lady's Witches gathered energy and Casting strength from sex."
Sam pauses, body still. He has a knife in one hand; Dean can see Sam's knuckles turn white as he grasps it tighter. "We all have our secrets, Hunter," he says. Dean can sense the power behind the words but, like it has been up to this point, he can't plumb the depths of that power, has no idea how wide it can stretch or what its talents are. "Us, especially, it seems."
There's no denying that.
--
They eat, fruit and sweetbread and skewered meat cooked over an open flame. It's the best food Dean's had in months for all that it's simple; the company helps, he's sure. Sam is a good conversationalist, the way most Witches trained from childhood are, and he knows enough about what's going on in other territories to talk with Dean on any number of topics.
"How do you know all of this stuff?" Dean asks, unable to stop himself. "You've never left the city and I know there can't be others travelling here often enough to keep you this informed."
Sam grins, says, "One of the Singer's Witches is a good friend of mine. You may have met him, he's been with her for a while. His name's Andy."
Dean thinks, barely remembers a guy with that name. "Kinda twitchy? Nice, though." At Sam's nod, Dean leans back in his chair, says, "Huh. So, what, you two Cast a bridge every time you get bored?"
"Andy's better than that," Sam replies, licking his fingers. "Most of the cross-country communication the Singer does is made through Andy. He can Sing right to a person's mind, words and images both, Hunter, Witch, or human. So he tells me things, and I Cast a one-way bridge to him."
"And this Witch, Andy. He's the one that keeps you up to date?" Dean could understand Sam knowing things about the Singer, then, and even some things about the Dreamer, based on the Lady's friendship with her, but not everything around the country.
Sam smiles, pushes the bowl of fruit towards Dean, one solitary strawberry left at the bottom. "Something like that."
Not an answer, but they both know that. Dean guesses Sam's keeping more secrets, but he can't be too upset, not with his belly full and a night's sleep to look forward to. He leans forward, takes the last strawberry and bites it in half, juice dribbling down his chin. Dean wipes it off on the back of his hand and savours the second half. "The last time I slept on a real bed," he murmurs, shakes his head. "I can't even remember."
"What about when you were," Sam starts to say, pauses and rolls his eyes though not, Dean hopes, at Dean. "Of course, the General would spare every luxury for his people." He stands, offers Dean a hand. "Here, we don't spare any luxury. The people at the bend of the river never have and the Lady wasn't about to start doing so."
Dean takes Sam's hand, lets Sam lead him through the kitchen towards a doorway he saw before but never looked through. He feels Sam Cast a spell at the walls and they start to glow, the light soft, serene, coming to life from runes carved into the paint. Dean hesitates but Sam keeps pulling and Dean has no choice but to follow Sam deeper into the room.
They walk past shelves filled with books and knick-knacks, things that pulse and hum to Dean's senses, each one of them Cast-strong with their own spells. Paintings cover the un-runed sections of the walls, abstract splotches of colour that seem to twist and writhe to Dean's eyes. He blinks, looks away as Sam takes him into another room.
This is the bedroom, there's no mistaking that, and there's no mistaking it's for more than sleeping. The bed is huge, would fit Sam and Dean with plenty of room to spare, and it's piled over with blankets and pillows. Fabric drapes from every corner of the room, and there are rune-lights inscribed around the edge of the ceiling, lighting the room enough for Dean to see the mural that covers the side walls. He takes in the art, makes a complete circle, sees another doorway to what looks like a bathroom, and feels lightheaded with the aura of sensuality and pleasure the room exudes.
Dean stares at Sam, knows his expression must show how out of depth he is, how lost. He has no frame of reference with which to make sense of this place, not to mention the person who lives here.
Sam's smile is gentle; it calms him. With sudden clarity, Dean realises: he trusts this Witch.
Before he can think about that, Sam drops Dean's hand and says, softly, "Allow me to serve?"
Dean can only nod.
It means a great deal, a Witch asking to serve, means almost as much as Dean taking his weapons off and setting them to one side. Being unarmed in the presence of a Witch isn't a light thing, but neither is Sam dropping to his knees, taking his eyes off of Dean and bending his head to untie the laces of Dean's boots. Dean traces the curve of Sam's skull with one hand, letting his fingers tighten around Sam's shoulder as he lifts first one foot, then the other.
Sam pulls off Dean's boots, then Dean's socks. The carpet is thick beneath Dean's naked feet and he curls his toes, feeling them sink into the plush material. For a man used to life on the road, brought up Hunting, this is all overwhelming. Sam rests his fingertips on Dean's ankle, looking up in silent question.
Dean stares; the silence feels close to sacred, inviolable, but he can't help asking, "You don't do this often?"
Rather than seem offended by the question, or amused, Sam flushes. "Apart from the Lady," he says quietly, "you're the first person I've ever invited in to my rooms, and you're the only one I've ever let see this room."
"I could," Dean starts to say, trails off. He could leave, could spend the night outside of the compound, but Sam offered and Dean can't look away from the depth and light of Sam's eyes. "Oh," he finally settles on saying, instantly cursing himself for his idiocy.
He's a Hunter, a Winchester, and Sam's one of the Lady's Witches; there's no reason to feel this way. No reason, save the atmosphere in the room, the way Sam is waiting and watching.
Dean realises he still has a hand on Sam's shoulder and drops it, pulling it back quickly as if he's been burned. Something in Sam's eyes breaks and it's all Dean can do to control himself from making a bigger fool out of himself. "I'm sorry if I implied something. I didn't." He takes a deep breath, and forces out, "Thank you for your service."
The bruised look in Sam's eyes fades but doesn't entirely disappear, not even as he's reaching up to undo Dean's jeans and pull them down. Dean steps out of them, stands there as Sam rises and helps Dean take off his coat, his layers of shirts, until Dean's only in his underwear.
The room is warm but his skin still prickles with goosebumps, waves of them spreading over his body as Sam strips his clothes -- all of them -- and turns the bed down. Dean can't help staring; Sam's clothes were utterly deceptive. They hid such broad shoulders and such a narrow waist, hid the muscles and the way Sam's hipbones cut a clear line down to his dick. How clothes, simple clothes, could cover something like Sam, Dean doesn't know. It has to be a Casting.
"Come," Sam says, and Dean licks his lips, taking a deep breath.
He follows Sam into the bathroom, lit just as softly as the bathroom. Sam lifts a small towel from a shelf and wets it down, washes Dean's face and then pats it dry with a different towel, soft enough that Dean might be forgiven for thinking it was made from clouds. Sam leads Dean to the toilet, turns his back while Dean takes care of business. When Dean shakes off and turns back around, Sam's waiting with a yet another towel.
"Hands," Sam murmurs, smile lighting up his face for all that it's as soft as the lights.
Dean holds out his hands, lets Sam clean them, and waits, curiously still, awed by the solemnity, as Sam reaches back to the counter and picks up a bottle of lotion. He wipes the first towel down Dean's chest, then moves behind Dean, wipes sweat and grime off his back, the towel dipping beneath the waistband of Dean's boxer-briefs. Dean resists the urge to tense, knows how Sam would react to that and doesn't want to see that reaction on Sam's face.
The lotion is warm when it hits Dean's skin and, as Sam rubs it in, it warms even more, pleasant as it sinks into his skin and relaxes his muscles. This is infinitely better than a quick dip in any river Dean comes across on the Hunt, even better than the last bath he had. Sam's hands, so large, move carefully across Dean's skin, caressing as much as they work out the tension in Dean's shoulders and upper arms.
Sam puts the lotion down, fills a glass of water and puts it to Dean's lips. Dean opens his mouth, lets Sam tip the water in, and the cold clarity of the liquid burns as he swallows.
Dean wants to ask questions, wants to know how Sam was trained to do this, whether the Lady did it or if Sam had another Witch teach him, if he practiced on anyone and who, how often. He doesn't open his mouth, though, not to speak. He's never felt like this in the presence of another Witch, not even the Dreamer; Dean could almost sway with how relaxed and at ease he is, even knowing next to nothing about Sam.
Something about him calms Dean, something about the way Sam is touching him like he's something to be treasured and treated kindly, not like a Hunter, a killer.
"I can draw a bath if you want," Sam finally says, the quiet murmur startling Dean.
"No," he says. "No, this is. Maybe in the morning, before we go."
Sam smiles, tilts his head down in acceptance, that or something else, something else that has Dean wishing he was wearing more clothes.
--
Sam shoos Dean into the bedroom, says something about cleaning himself up for sleep that Dean can only make half-sense of, visions of that bed beckoning him. He doesn't waste time, crawls into the bed and groans at the feeling of the mattress. Dean's proud of himself for not tensing up when Sam slides into next to him, pulls the covers up over their bodies. A wave of power Cast outward from Sam's bodies dims the room's rune-lights though the doorway to the rest of the suite lights up to Dean's senses. He studies the power, gets a sense of the way the wards are humming and sparking, then gapes, sitting up. The sheets and blankets fall to his waist.
"Your wards," he says. "They're the same ones as. You Cast the compound wards? Who'd you do it with?"
Dean knows he sounds petulant, even upset, but the compound wards had the trace of a Hunter in them. For a Witch to Cast with a Hunter, instead of just for or around, means that Sam has to have had a soul-deep connection with someone else. Dean wants to know who so he can kill them -- preferably as slowly and painfully as possible.
"They're the same," Sam murmurs, tugging Dean's arm, pulling him back down and covering him back up. Dean turns on his side, stares at the Witch he's in bed with. Sam's looking back at him, expression wiped clear of any emotion. "But I didn't Cast them with anyone."
"That's impossible," Dean says. "That's impossible."
Sam studies him, eventually shrugs with one shoulder and rests his hand on the skin over his heart. "I swear," he says. "On my loyalty to the Lady."
Dean looks at Sam, really looks. A sacred oath and a need to believe Sam; what kind of Hunter is he that he's actually thinking of taking Sam's word about this? Dean knows those wards, know what they felt like and what kind of power they have within them. "Too many questions, Sam," he says. "I have too many questions and not enough answers."
Sam's smile is unexpected. "I feel the same way," he admits, "and I still offered to serve and you still accepted. When we find Azazel, when this is over, I'll tell you everything. But not until then." He drops his eyes, looks at Dean through long eyelashes as he asks, "You understand, don't you?"
After Azazel. After a Hunt and time on the road. "Yes," Dean says. He understands. That'll be soon enough, once they get the measure of each other. And if Sam will confess, then maybe Dean will as well.
Maybe.
--
Dean wakes up and doesn't know where he is, not at first. He has hair in his mouth, a warm body spread over his, and he's sleeping on air. He shifts and the arm draped over his chest, the nose pressed into his neck, moves.
Dean opens his eyes, looks down and remembers: the Lady, Azazel, Sam. His eyes widen as he sees that he's hopelessly entangled with Sam, one of his arms around Sam, keeping the Witch close, his feet twined with Sam's, his dick half-hard in his boxers.
Sam hums, burrows closer, and Dean feels the Witch's cock twitch against his leg.
There's no graceful way to remove himself so Dean doesn't try; instead, he merely rolls out from under Sam, feet hitting the floor as he stands and heads immediately for the bathroom.
"Want me to," Sam starts, mumbles through a yawn, finishes with, "bath?"
"No," Dean says, not waiting to answer Sam, hearing just fine as the Witch sits up, stretches. "I'm good, thanks. I'll just. Yeah." He flees, no other word for it, and closes the bathroom door, leans against it. "The fuck are you doing?" he mutters, angry and confused. He's never run from a bed partner before, never hesitated to indulge. Why the thought of simply taking casual pleasure from Sam -- probably with the Witch if that erection he felt was anything to go by -- strikes him as wrong, Dean doesn't know and he doesn't like not knowing.
With a muffled curse, he steps into the shower, pointedly not looking at the huge sunken-in tub, and jerks off under a spray of cold water.
--
Sam has breakfast waiting in the kitchen when Dean finally puts on freshly cleaned clothes and emerges from the bedroom. It's nothing fancy, toasted breads and glazed pieces of fried dough, more fresh fruit and piping hot eggs, but Dean sits at the table and digs in with a vengeance as Sam disappears into the bathroom to clean himself. There's no telling when the next half-decent meal might come their way.
He's just finishing when Sam steps into the kitchen. Dean raises an eyebrow and can't help saying, "You look like one of the General's Witches."
Sam looks down at himself, at the jeans and the t-shirt, similar to yesterday's and not worth the remark. "What?" he asks, looking back at Dean. "How?"
Dean gestures with his fork at the sheathed dagger Sam's holding with one hand, the knives strapped to Sam's upper arms, the pieces of chalk tied to his wrists, the way his hair's pushed back from his face and pulled into a tight, tiny, ponytail. "Looking to call up some serious mojo?"
"Just in case," Sam replies, shrugging as he puts the dagger on the table and helps himself to a cup of coffee. "From the way you talked about Azazel and what the Lady and the Dreamer said, it can't hurt."
It's good to see that Sam takes this seriously, but the Witch is bringing along two ritual knives and chalk, not to mention the hilt of that dagger looks old, ridiculously ornate and ceremonial. Dean's only ever seen one Witch perform a Major Casting and it only required chalk. "What kind of Major Casting requires two ritual knives?" he asks.
Sam's eyes are shadowed. "They're called pas de la diablerie. Hopefully you'll never have to see one. I'm ready when you are."
Dean holds Sam's gaze, then picks up the last piece of bread and stands. "Let's go."
--
They don't see another Witch leaving the Lady's residence and no one looks at them on the streets. The girl, Rosie, is sitting inside the ward-house at the edge of the compound and she stands, her smile at seeing them fading quickly as she takes in Dean's expression and Sam's gear.
"Be careful," she whispers, hugging Sam as if she might never see him again.
For his part, Sam merely wraps his arms around her and pats her on the head. "We will, sweetheart. We'll be back before you have a chance to miss us."
Dean expects Rosie to take her cue from that but she steps back, fixes Dean with a gaze that screams with power to his senses. "Take care of him, Hunter," she says. "And let him take care of you."
"Rosie," Sam says, but she simply holds up one hand, ignoring Sam with her eyes focused on Dean.
Rather than brush her words off, Dean nods at the advice and implicit threat. "Duly noted."
Rosie nods and steps to the side.
Dean can feel her watching them as they walk away. He doesn't turn around to check, doesn't have to, but he does turn to Sam and mutter, "Overprotective, much?"
Sam grins, ducks his head and fidgets absently with one of the pieces of chalk tied to his wrist. "She can be, yes. But she speaks with wisdom more often than not."
Dean sighs, doesn't say another word, just leads Sam to the car and starts his baby up, stroking the dash as she purrs and rumbles beneath his touch.
The Witch sitting in the passenger seat doesn't say anything, doesn't even raise an eyebrow, merely settles in as if he's carving out a place for himself.
Dean's not entirely sure how he feels about that.
--
They drive all day. Sam doesn't say much at first, not as they drive out of the city and then north, Dean with the window down and tracking the chain Azazel's power left with the anchor-point. It's not until they're nine hours away from the Lady's city and in the last hour of her territory, approaching her border with the Healer, that Sam turns in his seat and fixes his eyes on Dean.
Dean glances over, raises an eyebrow in question at the look on the Witch's face. "What?"
"We haven't seen many people since we left the outskirts of Nouvelle Orleans," Sam says. "And the homes since, they're all." He trails off, looks disturbed. "They're quiet. Too quiet. Warded, somehow, but not with a Cast ward."
"Most people live in the High Witches' cities or close to them," Dean says. "The power seeps out enough to scare off all but the most powerful Rogues. The humans who live in the outskirts of the territories, they're tough and they don't trust anyone they don't know. The Scholar -- well," he stops, correcting himself, "the Scholar a few generations back, anyway, got hold of an old grimoire. Turns out there are some things that can repel most of the Rogues: salt, sage, a few other herbs and some runes that anyone can chalk out. That's probably what makes them dead zones to you -- though how you can feel them, it makes me wonder."
Sam swallows, looks out of the window. Dean wants to press but doesn't. Being able to sense a dead zone, an area warded either by natural means or Castings, that's something a Hunter can do, is a skill that's kept more than one Hunter alive by the skin of their teeth. It's not usually something a Witch can do.
"When I travel outside of the compound," Sam says, "I. You could say it's kind of like sending bursts of power out every so often, to see if they run up against anything. These ones, they're bouncing back, which means they hit something, but there isn't a, a Cast-sense to them."
"Cast-sense," Dean says, slowly. "You can sense power?"
Sam shakes his head, looks down at his hands. "Not really. Just the flavour. Y'know, like I'd recognise if a Witch was one of the Element's, or belonged to the Builder. Not a specific person or a signature, though."
Dean whistles low, under his breath. "Still," he says. "That's one hell of a skill." No wonder Sam's the heir, if he can do things like that.
"So the people who live out this far," Sam says, clearly changing the subject. "You said they're different. Are they safe?"
"Some of the best people I know," Dean replies. "A lot of Hunters have home bases near territory lines and we tend to gather far away from the High Witches' cities. If Azazel's trail goes anywhere near some of them, we'll stop and see my friends."
Sam hums, doesn't say anything for a while. "Why do you tend to gather away from the residence cities?" he finally asks.
Dean had been expecting the question. "Hunters can't turn off their senses," he says, "including how we sense and keep track of Witches. The number that gather in residence cities, it doesn't sit well with us."
"Am I bothering you?" Sam asks.
Before Dean can answer, he feels Sam tighten control over his power, tucking it even closer to his body. Dean hadn't noticed Sam's power except as a constant presence, something he'd almost begun to take for granted. Now that it's slunk back, hidden itself, he feels the loss like a punch to his gut. Opening his mouth to say something, he stops, presses his lips together. Some Hunters have fallen prey to specific Casting signatures before, something like an addiction, unable to function without that Witch by their side. Dean doesn't think he's one of them, has never felt the urge to wrap himself in a signature before, but the loss of Sam's doesn't sit right with him.
"Not bothering me," Dean replies. "But thank you."
He ignores the downward tilt of Sam's mouth and keeps driving.
--
When they reach the border between the Lady and the Healer's territory, Dean grins and floors the Impala. "Hold tight," he warns Sam.
The Witch doesn't question the order, simply reaches out and grasps the dash with one hand.
Dean can sense the thick wards across the boundary, can feel the oncoming change from the Lady's territory to the Healer's like a sneeze stuck in his throat.
With a roar, the car breaches the wards and Dean shudders, senses reaching outwards and deciphering the changes in the air. The heady feel of pure sensuality that permeates the air in the Lady's territory is gone here, now, replaced by something that smells clean, close to antiseptic. Dean likes the Healer's territory just for that reason; the High Witch has a tendency to weird Dean out but the overtone to his signature, it's the most clean Dean ever feels.
He looks over, curious to see how Sam's reacting, and slams on the brakes when he sees -- literally sees -- the power leaking out of Sam. A part of him registers the colour, not grey like Jake but a stunning green and gold with darker threads moving in and out in the shadows; the majority of him is focused on stopping the car, getting out and over to Sam's side, pulling the Witch out of the Impala.
Sam tumbles to the ground, hands scrabbling in the dirt as he throws his head up to the sky and screams. Dean steps back, unsure how he can help, the knowledge drummed into him by his father telling him to keep away, to not touch a Witch in the midst of Casting, to not distract a Witch for fear of the Casting breaking, coming back to circle on him. Dean's never seen it happen but he's never seen a lot of things, doesn't make them all lies.
He watches, worried, as Sam takes out one of his ritual knives, hand clenched tight around the hilt, and slices open the palm of his other hand. Sam pants, waits for something. When the blood's dripped into the dirt, Sam reaches down, scoops up a finger-full, and smears the paste across his forehead, down his sternum, over his lips.
"My mind, my heart, my words," Sam says, eyes every muscle in his body tense. "Fealty to Witches, assistance to Hunters, death to Rogues."
He drops the knife, body drawn tight as a bowstring, and then his power swirls around, dancing. The ribbons of green and gold speed up, moving so fast they form a cloud around the Witch too thick for Dean to see through. Sam's gasping for breath, sounds like he's dying, but then the power slams back into Sam's body. The Witch shudders, caught on the edge of something that looks fatal, and the air around Dean is tense with waiting.
Sam slumps, boneless, then slides to the ground as if his muscles and bones have turned liquid inside of his skin. Dean can't sense anything save for the pure scent of the air and faint wardings two hours to their west.
"You okay?" he asks, hesitantly taking one step towards the Witch.
Sam gives him a thumbs up, then lets his arm fall back to the earth.
Dean raises an eyebrow. "Huh. Good. What the hell was that?"
Before Sam can answer, Dean whirls, sensing a Witch's Casting coming their way with intent. He backs up toward Sam, gets out his gun and takes out a sachet of salt from his back pocket. He gears himself up to Shield and says, "We've got company."
Rather than feel Sam pour power into Casting a ward around them, Sam reaches out with his leg and kicks Dean, struggles to sit up. "I know who this is," he says. "It's just a bridge. Stay close, though, and I'll make sure you can hear what's going on."
Dean turns to look at the Witch, incredulous, but Sam focuses and sends out his power to meet the bridge being Cast. With a full-body shudder, Sam’s woven his power into the bridge, sustaining his side of the Casting. Dean’s close enough to hear the Witch on the other end say, "--uel? You did not have to do that. If what the Dreamer says is true, you should be saving your strength."
"I'm fine," Sam replies. Dean blinks at the tone, a combination of respect and playfulness. The Witch grins widely and says, "May I be of service, Healer?"
'The Healer?' Dean mouths, and Sam nods, holds up a hand. Dean grasps it, heaves Sam up, and has the Witch's hand on his chest a moment later; Sam overbalanced and leans against Dean to keep from falling.
Dean flushes, makes sure Sam can stand upright without help before turning away, staring out over the flat plains of the Healer's far territory, listening as the Healer says, "I thought I might be."
Sam elbows Dean; the Hunter turns and sees a frown on Sam's face. "Not that we wouldn't appreciate any help you're offering, Healer, but," Sam says.
The High Witch cuts Sam off, asks, "Is the Hunter there? Can he hear me?" Sam answers in the affirmative and the Healer says, "Good. This concerns you both. The Dreamer said she saw you entering my territory and I only just felt it, Samuel. If I'd had more time, I would have keyed you into the wards. Since you're here, though, I highly recommend you get your asses over to the mountains. The Rogue's hiding out near my border with the Singer but won't stay there for long. Got that?"
"Got it," Dean replies. "Thank you. And thank the Dreamer for us, too, if you talk to her." Dean walks away, towards the car, already planning a route in his mind. The mountains, that's a long stretch, but he'll catch the scent again once he gets out that way, is saving him and Sam time by cutting out any pit-stops Azazel made along the way.
He's still close enough to hear the Healer say, "I like this one. Me 'n the Lady, Samuel, we don't agree on much, but this? This, we agree on."
Dean's in the car, ready to move on, when Sam enters quietly, cheeks flushed. "Something I should know?" he asks mildly.
"No," Sam says. The Witch can't meet Dean's eyes. Dean decides not to push the issue.
Part Three
There's someone different waiting at the entrance to the compound. She's young, can't be more than fifteen, and she smiles when she sees Samuel, wraps her arms around his waist and squeezes. Samuel places a hand on the girl's skull, hugs her back and says, gently, "Hey, Rosie."
She looks up at him, and Dean watches in puzzlement as Samuel looks down at her. Neither of them say a word. He waits, confusion turning to anger as the seconds turn to minutes and Azazel's trail grows colder and colder. Finally he reaches out, almost reels backwards when he feels the strength of the bridge Cast between them. Samuel's signature is one he's gotten used to over the past four hours, has felt wrapped around him since Samuel Cast a ward south of the city, but Rosie's is strong for such a child.
For a moment, Dean wonders if her power is the one holding the wards up, but the wards spark and glitter against Dean's senses and her power is close but not the same.
"We'll be quick," Samuel finally says, patting Rosie.
Dean sees the girl fall back from Samuel, reluctance all over her face. He doesn't say anything, not when Samuel leads him through the wards and into the compound, heading for the Lady's residence, not until they're three streets closer to the river.
"She seems young," Dean says, almost reluctantly. "Has she sworn her oath to the Lady?"
Samuel glances at him, looks back down the street. "We aren't monsters, no matter what Hunters say or think," he replies. "A child's a child, no matter her gifts, and the loyalty oath is voluntary."
Dean winces, wishes he could take back the words, wishes he could rewind time. Samuel's pissed off and the curlicues of power drifting around Dean are poised, ready to strike at any second. Still, the power is there protecting him, so Samuel can't be too upset. Either way, Dean wishes that the power Cast in his direction would retract the fangs he can feel, searching for a victim.
"You're close," he says, desperately trying to back himself out of a corner. "A bridge strong enough to communicate telepathically; even the Singer's sworn Witches can't all do that. How long have you known her?"
Samuel glances at Dean, then over his shoulder, back in Rosie's direction though they've moved too far to see her. "Since she was an infant," Samuel finally says.
Dean pushes because he can hear the edge of a story under Sam's hesitation. "How'd she come here?"
"A Hunter left her at our wards," Samuel says, blunt for once. "Her parents were killed by a Rogue and Rosie barely escaped with her life."
A low whistle is Dean's only response. Samuel seems relieved that Dean's not going to press any harder.
--
Samuel walks past Lily, back at the door and reading a book, without saying a word. Her face is pale, drained of colour, as Dean follows Samuel. He doesn't know why, doesn't know why the other Witches they see take one look at Samuel and disappear as fast as they can.
It's not until Nathan steps out from behind a door that Dean feels some echo of the power Samuel holds here, nothing metaphysical, simply political. Nathan sneers, opens his mouth, and Samuel merely says, "Don't," without stopping. Nathan stops, doesn't give way but doesn't say what he was about to, either.
They head for the stairs and, halfway up, Dean mutters, "Couldn't you've done that earlier?"
Samuel's reply is immediate: "If I did what I wanted with him, he'd be dead a hundred times over."
Yeah, that sounds about right. Dean can feel Samuel's Casting power turn into tendrils of barbed wire that snake out from Samuel's body and clear a path down the hall. No humans would be able to sense that power but they don't come across any more Witches and Dean's sure any sensible Hunter would be packing on protection charms left, right, and centre.
Dean doesn't, not when that same power is clouding around him, as soft as silk.
--
Samuel knocks once on the door to the Lady's audience chamber but doesn't wait for an invitation. He opens the door, walks in, and waits for Dean to follow before closing the door behind them. Dean steps forward, then, and Samuel stands back, as if he's waiting for something.
"You left, and now you have returned to us," the Lady says, eyes glancing between the two of them even as Dean can feel her power glide outwards from her body. "So soon, so quickly. Why is that, Dean Winchester?"
Dean resists the urge to bare his teeth at the Lady, knows it would be suicide to do so, especially with Samuel's Casting power still tense and searching for a target, the Lady's crawling daintily along the floor and walls. The Lady inclines her head the smallest amount, enough for Dean to notice. She knows how upset Samuel is.
"You should know half the reason for that, Lady," Dean replies, even as she's stretching out one hand and Samuel's brushing past Dean to grasp her hand with his, to kneel at her feet and rest his forehead against her legs. "Your Casting signature spreads into Nouvelle Orleans and the surrounding areas. In order to Hunt Azazel with this much of a time-delay, I need clean air to catch his paths. The other half of it concerns this," he adds, holding out the anchor-point.
The Lady glances at it and Dean can feel her power dance through Samuel's and swirl around the stone, careful to stay outside of Dean's Shield but close enough to taste the Witch's signature. "An anchor-point, this close to my city," she murmurs. Dean's taken off-guard; she knows what it is. He hadn't expected she would. "Thank you for removing it," she says.
Dean nods. "You're welcome." His eyes flick down to Samuel, curled so tight at the Lady's feet, and he adds, "I didn't recognise the Witch on it, at first. Samuel did and he lifted enough of the Rogue's power for me to scent the Witch. I know him. His name's Jake, he's one of the General's."
"The same one who refused to leave the General's city in Hunt of Azazel," she murmurs, hums thoughtfully. "The one who abandoned you." She twines her hand in Samuel's hair, tugs his head upwards to look down at him. "You haven't done anything precipitous, have you?" she asks Samuel.
Samuel's power finally settles, circles into tight bunches and disappears back under the same tight control Dean noticed when he first met the Witch, all except for the ward still hovering around Dean. It's almost as if Samuel's forgotten about it, that or it's become second-nature to leave it where it is. "No, my Lady," Samuel says, almost quiet enough to be a whisper. "Dean stopped me."
The Lady raises an eyebrow, looks up at Dean before returning her gaze back to Samuel. "A better match than I had thought." She pauses, and when she speaks again, Dean knows she's asking him, "There's something else, it seems?"
"My father," Dean replies. "A friend of the family said he came here, to see you and Nouvelle Orleans, four times. Did he leave anything here? Anything that might explain why Azazel would risk your power and my skill to visit Nouvelle Orleans?"
That question makes the Lady look up, away from Samuel. Her eyes , a blue the colour of the sky, meet Dean's and Cast power out, around Dean. She can't get close, though, not with Samuel's wards still covering Dean from head to toe. She doesn't seem displeased about that.
The Lady smiles, a small, secretive expression, and looks back down at her heir. "I met your father, yes," she says. "And he would be proud to see you now, what you've become. To answer your question: John Winchester left things here but nothing Azazel could hope to take from me. He took things away with him as well, but those are safe from Azazel's touch. If the Rogue came here to test that, he left disappointed, I can guarantee."
"You're not going to tell me what those things are," Dean says, sighing, resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. His head aches with all of the power the Lady's Cast about the room, from sensing all of the Witches here, from another tangle to a mystery without end. "Well, as long as you can guarantee their safety, I'll accept that."
The Lady lets go of Samuel's hair, scratches his scalp then makes a shooing motion. Samuel stands, moves back to stand at Dean's right, close enough for Dean to feel the heat rising from Samuel's body. There's no trace of the Witch's power, though, something that alternately thrills and terrifies Dean; this close, after all that Samuel's expended in the past few hours, he should be able to get something, anything.
"With that in mind, then. What will you do next, Hunter?" she asks.
Dean blinks, startled out of his contemplation of the Witch standing next to him. "The anchor-point has enough of Azazel's scent on it for me to track," he says, slowly, thinking as he speaks. "With Samuel's help, I'm sure we can narrow down a trail. I just don't know where it'll lead."
"In that case," Samuel says, "I'd like permission to leave your territory if it should become necessary."
The Lady looks at Samuel; Dean's convinced she's going to refuse. Letting the heir out of the compound, even out of the city, is one thing, bad enough, but out of the territory? There's never been precedent before, not in any generation in any country back to the first Battle of London and the rise of the Rogues.
"Granted," the Lady finally says, leaning back in her chair, gazing at them thoughtfully as her power twists and turns between them, around them. "I give you leave to contact the Singer and spread the word."
Samuel bows from the waist, a curiously old-fashioned gesture that Dean doesn't even try to echo. Instead, he nods, takes two steps back before turning his back on her.
They're almost out of the audience chamber when she says, "And Dean?" Dean stops, looks over his shoulder. The Lady is smiling, fingers steepled as she watches them. "Call him Sam."
--
Samuel -- Sam -- leads the way to his rooms; Dean follows, quiet and thoughtful. It's not until they're inside, safe behind closed doors and thrumming wards, that Dean says, "She knows something."
"She's the Lady," Sam replies. He says that as if it's answer enough, as if it explains so much and covers so many things. The problem is that Sam's right. She's the Lady. She needs no other reason to keep her secrets. None of the High Witches need reasons for anything they do. If Sam becomes a High Witch himself, he'll be just the same.
Dean finds himself unsettled at the thought.
"We should rest up before we hit the road," Dean finally says, watching as Sam bends over to pull some food from the bottom drawer of the icebox. The food from before is gone; Dean doesn't ask what happened to it. "I don't know when we'll get a chance to sleep next."
"You think we can afford to lose the time?" Sam asks in reply, standing up, hands loaded with fruit. He drops everything onto a counter, grabs a knife from a chopping block, and starts carving pieces of fruit. "Not that I'm, y'know. You're the Hunter. I just thought we were in a hurry."
Dean's eyes are caught on the way Sam handles the knife, large hands wrapping around the curve of an apple, long fingers moving the chopped pieces into a glass bowl. "I have an anchor-point now," Dean finally replies. "That'll hold enough of his signature to last three weeks. We have time."
Sam turns, gives Dean a shadowed look. "I only have one bed. And the couch isn't comfortable."
A swallow, and Dean says, "There'll be closer quarters on the Hunt." He ignores the wave of heat that statement sends through his body, doesn't put too much stock into the curious light of Sam's eyes. Instead, he asks, "What's one of the Lady's Witches doing with one bed, anyway?"
"I might be one of the Lady's sworn followers," Sam says, "with all that entails, but it doesn't mean I'm a slut, Dean. There's no one here I care to take pleasure with."
Dean tilts his head, watches as Sam turns back to the counter, drizzling some sort of sauce over the fruit. "I didn't mean to offend you," he offers. "I'm just curious. I thought the Lady's Witches gathered energy and Casting strength from sex."
Sam pauses, body still. He has a knife in one hand; Dean can see Sam's knuckles turn white as he grasps it tighter. "We all have our secrets, Hunter," he says. Dean can sense the power behind the words but, like it has been up to this point, he can't plumb the depths of that power, has no idea how wide it can stretch or what its talents are. "Us, especially, it seems."
There's no denying that.
--
They eat, fruit and sweetbread and skewered meat cooked over an open flame. It's the best food Dean's had in months for all that it's simple; the company helps, he's sure. Sam is a good conversationalist, the way most Witches trained from childhood are, and he knows enough about what's going on in other territories to talk with Dean on any number of topics.
"How do you know all of this stuff?" Dean asks, unable to stop himself. "You've never left the city and I know there can't be others travelling here often enough to keep you this informed."
Sam grins, says, "One of the Singer's Witches is a good friend of mine. You may have met him, he's been with her for a while. His name's Andy."
Dean thinks, barely remembers a guy with that name. "Kinda twitchy? Nice, though." At Sam's nod, Dean leans back in his chair, says, "Huh. So, what, you two Cast a bridge every time you get bored?"
"Andy's better than that," Sam replies, licking his fingers. "Most of the cross-country communication the Singer does is made through Andy. He can Sing right to a person's mind, words and images both, Hunter, Witch, or human. So he tells me things, and I Cast a one-way bridge to him."
"And this Witch, Andy. He's the one that keeps you up to date?" Dean could understand Sam knowing things about the Singer, then, and even some things about the Dreamer, based on the Lady's friendship with her, but not everything around the country.
Sam smiles, pushes the bowl of fruit towards Dean, one solitary strawberry left at the bottom. "Something like that."
Not an answer, but they both know that. Dean guesses Sam's keeping more secrets, but he can't be too upset, not with his belly full and a night's sleep to look forward to. He leans forward, takes the last strawberry and bites it in half, juice dribbling down his chin. Dean wipes it off on the back of his hand and savours the second half. "The last time I slept on a real bed," he murmurs, shakes his head. "I can't even remember."
"What about when you were," Sam starts to say, pauses and rolls his eyes though not, Dean hopes, at Dean. "Of course, the General would spare every luxury for his people." He stands, offers Dean a hand. "Here, we don't spare any luxury. The people at the bend of the river never have and the Lady wasn't about to start doing so."
Dean takes Sam's hand, lets Sam lead him through the kitchen towards a doorway he saw before but never looked through. He feels Sam Cast a spell at the walls and they start to glow, the light soft, serene, coming to life from runes carved into the paint. Dean hesitates but Sam keeps pulling and Dean has no choice but to follow Sam deeper into the room.
They walk past shelves filled with books and knick-knacks, things that pulse and hum to Dean's senses, each one of them Cast-strong with their own spells. Paintings cover the un-runed sections of the walls, abstract splotches of colour that seem to twist and writhe to Dean's eyes. He blinks, looks away as Sam takes him into another room.
This is the bedroom, there's no mistaking that, and there's no mistaking it's for more than sleeping. The bed is huge, would fit Sam and Dean with plenty of room to spare, and it's piled over with blankets and pillows. Fabric drapes from every corner of the room, and there are rune-lights inscribed around the edge of the ceiling, lighting the room enough for Dean to see the mural that covers the side walls. He takes in the art, makes a complete circle, sees another doorway to what looks like a bathroom, and feels lightheaded with the aura of sensuality and pleasure the room exudes.
Dean stares at Sam, knows his expression must show how out of depth he is, how lost. He has no frame of reference with which to make sense of this place, not to mention the person who lives here.
Sam's smile is gentle; it calms him. With sudden clarity, Dean realises: he trusts this Witch.
Before he can think about that, Sam drops Dean's hand and says, softly, "Allow me to serve?"
Dean can only nod.
It means a great deal, a Witch asking to serve, means almost as much as Dean taking his weapons off and setting them to one side. Being unarmed in the presence of a Witch isn't a light thing, but neither is Sam dropping to his knees, taking his eyes off of Dean and bending his head to untie the laces of Dean's boots. Dean traces the curve of Sam's skull with one hand, letting his fingers tighten around Sam's shoulder as he lifts first one foot, then the other.
Sam pulls off Dean's boots, then Dean's socks. The carpet is thick beneath Dean's naked feet and he curls his toes, feeling them sink into the plush material. For a man used to life on the road, brought up Hunting, this is all overwhelming. Sam rests his fingertips on Dean's ankle, looking up in silent question.
Dean stares; the silence feels close to sacred, inviolable, but he can't help asking, "You don't do this often?"
Rather than seem offended by the question, or amused, Sam flushes. "Apart from the Lady," he says quietly, "you're the first person I've ever invited in to my rooms, and you're the only one I've ever let see this room."
"I could," Dean starts to say, trails off. He could leave, could spend the night outside of the compound, but Sam offered and Dean can't look away from the depth and light of Sam's eyes. "Oh," he finally settles on saying, instantly cursing himself for his idiocy.
He's a Hunter, a Winchester, and Sam's one of the Lady's Witches; there's no reason to feel this way. No reason, save the atmosphere in the room, the way Sam is waiting and watching.
Dean realises he still has a hand on Sam's shoulder and drops it, pulling it back quickly as if he's been burned. Something in Sam's eyes breaks and it's all Dean can do to control himself from making a bigger fool out of himself. "I'm sorry if I implied something. I didn't." He takes a deep breath, and forces out, "Thank you for your service."
The bruised look in Sam's eyes fades but doesn't entirely disappear, not even as he's reaching up to undo Dean's jeans and pull them down. Dean steps out of them, stands there as Sam rises and helps Dean take off his coat, his layers of shirts, until Dean's only in his underwear.
The room is warm but his skin still prickles with goosebumps, waves of them spreading over his body as Sam strips his clothes -- all of them -- and turns the bed down. Dean can't help staring; Sam's clothes were utterly deceptive. They hid such broad shoulders and such a narrow waist, hid the muscles and the way Sam's hipbones cut a clear line down to his dick. How clothes, simple clothes, could cover something like Sam, Dean doesn't know. It has to be a Casting.
"Come," Sam says, and Dean licks his lips, taking a deep breath.
He follows Sam into the bathroom, lit just as softly as the bathroom. Sam lifts a small towel from a shelf and wets it down, washes Dean's face and then pats it dry with a different towel, soft enough that Dean might be forgiven for thinking it was made from clouds. Sam leads Dean to the toilet, turns his back while Dean takes care of business. When Dean shakes off and turns back around, Sam's waiting with a yet another towel.
"Hands," Sam murmurs, smile lighting up his face for all that it's as soft as the lights.
Dean holds out his hands, lets Sam clean them, and waits, curiously still, awed by the solemnity, as Sam reaches back to the counter and picks up a bottle of lotion. He wipes the first towel down Dean's chest, then moves behind Dean, wipes sweat and grime off his back, the towel dipping beneath the waistband of Dean's boxer-briefs. Dean resists the urge to tense, knows how Sam would react to that and doesn't want to see that reaction on Sam's face.
The lotion is warm when it hits Dean's skin and, as Sam rubs it in, it warms even more, pleasant as it sinks into his skin and relaxes his muscles. This is infinitely better than a quick dip in any river Dean comes across on the Hunt, even better than the last bath he had. Sam's hands, so large, move carefully across Dean's skin, caressing as much as they work out the tension in Dean's shoulders and upper arms.
Sam puts the lotion down, fills a glass of water and puts it to Dean's lips. Dean opens his mouth, lets Sam tip the water in, and the cold clarity of the liquid burns as he swallows.
Dean wants to ask questions, wants to know how Sam was trained to do this, whether the Lady did it or if Sam had another Witch teach him, if he practiced on anyone and who, how often. He doesn't open his mouth, though, not to speak. He's never felt like this in the presence of another Witch, not even the Dreamer; Dean could almost sway with how relaxed and at ease he is, even knowing next to nothing about Sam.
Something about him calms Dean, something about the way Sam is touching him like he's something to be treasured and treated kindly, not like a Hunter, a killer.
"I can draw a bath if you want," Sam finally says, the quiet murmur startling Dean.
"No," he says. "No, this is. Maybe in the morning, before we go."
Sam smiles, tilts his head down in acceptance, that or something else, something else that has Dean wishing he was wearing more clothes.
--
Sam shoos Dean into the bedroom, says something about cleaning himself up for sleep that Dean can only make half-sense of, visions of that bed beckoning him. He doesn't waste time, crawls into the bed and groans at the feeling of the mattress. Dean's proud of himself for not tensing up when Sam slides into next to him, pulls the covers up over their bodies. A wave of power Cast outward from Sam's bodies dims the room's rune-lights though the doorway to the rest of the suite lights up to Dean's senses. He studies the power, gets a sense of the way the wards are humming and sparking, then gapes, sitting up. The sheets and blankets fall to his waist.
"Your wards," he says. "They're the same ones as. You Cast the compound wards? Who'd you do it with?"
Dean knows he sounds petulant, even upset, but the compound wards had the trace of a Hunter in them. For a Witch to Cast with a Hunter, instead of just for or around, means that Sam has to have had a soul-deep connection with someone else. Dean wants to know who so he can kill them -- preferably as slowly and painfully as possible.
"They're the same," Sam murmurs, tugging Dean's arm, pulling him back down and covering him back up. Dean turns on his side, stares at the Witch he's in bed with. Sam's looking back at him, expression wiped clear of any emotion. "But I didn't Cast them with anyone."
"That's impossible," Dean says. "That's impossible."
Sam studies him, eventually shrugs with one shoulder and rests his hand on the skin over his heart. "I swear," he says. "On my loyalty to the Lady."
Dean looks at Sam, really looks. A sacred oath and a need to believe Sam; what kind of Hunter is he that he's actually thinking of taking Sam's word about this? Dean knows those wards, know what they felt like and what kind of power they have within them. "Too many questions, Sam," he says. "I have too many questions and not enough answers."
Sam's smile is unexpected. "I feel the same way," he admits, "and I still offered to serve and you still accepted. When we find Azazel, when this is over, I'll tell you everything. But not until then." He drops his eyes, looks at Dean through long eyelashes as he asks, "You understand, don't you?"
After Azazel. After a Hunt and time on the road. "Yes," Dean says. He understands. That'll be soon enough, once they get the measure of each other. And if Sam will confess, then maybe Dean will as well.
Maybe.
--
Dean wakes up and doesn't know where he is, not at first. He has hair in his mouth, a warm body spread over his, and he's sleeping on air. He shifts and the arm draped over his chest, the nose pressed into his neck, moves.
Dean opens his eyes, looks down and remembers: the Lady, Azazel, Sam. His eyes widen as he sees that he's hopelessly entangled with Sam, one of his arms around Sam, keeping the Witch close, his feet twined with Sam's, his dick half-hard in his boxers.
Sam hums, burrows closer, and Dean feels the Witch's cock twitch against his leg.
There's no graceful way to remove himself so Dean doesn't try; instead, he merely rolls out from under Sam, feet hitting the floor as he stands and heads immediately for the bathroom.
"Want me to," Sam starts, mumbles through a yawn, finishes with, "bath?"
"No," Dean says, not waiting to answer Sam, hearing just fine as the Witch sits up, stretches. "I'm good, thanks. I'll just. Yeah." He flees, no other word for it, and closes the bathroom door, leans against it. "The fuck are you doing?" he mutters, angry and confused. He's never run from a bed partner before, never hesitated to indulge. Why the thought of simply taking casual pleasure from Sam -- probably with the Witch if that erection he felt was anything to go by -- strikes him as wrong, Dean doesn't know and he doesn't like not knowing.
With a muffled curse, he steps into the shower, pointedly not looking at the huge sunken-in tub, and jerks off under a spray of cold water.
--
Sam has breakfast waiting in the kitchen when Dean finally puts on freshly cleaned clothes and emerges from the bedroom. It's nothing fancy, toasted breads and glazed pieces of fried dough, more fresh fruit and piping hot eggs, but Dean sits at the table and digs in with a vengeance as Sam disappears into the bathroom to clean himself. There's no telling when the next half-decent meal might come their way.
He's just finishing when Sam steps into the kitchen. Dean raises an eyebrow and can't help saying, "You look like one of the General's Witches."
Sam looks down at himself, at the jeans and the t-shirt, similar to yesterday's and not worth the remark. "What?" he asks, looking back at Dean. "How?"
Dean gestures with his fork at the sheathed dagger Sam's holding with one hand, the knives strapped to Sam's upper arms, the pieces of chalk tied to his wrists, the way his hair's pushed back from his face and pulled into a tight, tiny, ponytail. "Looking to call up some serious mojo?"
"Just in case," Sam replies, shrugging as he puts the dagger on the table and helps himself to a cup of coffee. "From the way you talked about Azazel and what the Lady and the Dreamer said, it can't hurt."
It's good to see that Sam takes this seriously, but the Witch is bringing along two ritual knives and chalk, not to mention the hilt of that dagger looks old, ridiculously ornate and ceremonial. Dean's only ever seen one Witch perform a Major Casting and it only required chalk. "What kind of Major Casting requires two ritual knives?" he asks.
Sam's eyes are shadowed. "They're called pas de la diablerie. Hopefully you'll never have to see one. I'm ready when you are."
Dean holds Sam's gaze, then picks up the last piece of bread and stands. "Let's go."
--
They don't see another Witch leaving the Lady's residence and no one looks at them on the streets. The girl, Rosie, is sitting inside the ward-house at the edge of the compound and she stands, her smile at seeing them fading quickly as she takes in Dean's expression and Sam's gear.
"Be careful," she whispers, hugging Sam as if she might never see him again.
For his part, Sam merely wraps his arms around her and pats her on the head. "We will, sweetheart. We'll be back before you have a chance to miss us."
Dean expects Rosie to take her cue from that but she steps back, fixes Dean with a gaze that screams with power to his senses. "Take care of him, Hunter," she says. "And let him take care of you."
"Rosie," Sam says, but she simply holds up one hand, ignoring Sam with her eyes focused on Dean.
Rather than brush her words off, Dean nods at the advice and implicit threat. "Duly noted."
Rosie nods and steps to the side.
Dean can feel her watching them as they walk away. He doesn't turn around to check, doesn't have to, but he does turn to Sam and mutter, "Overprotective, much?"
Sam grins, ducks his head and fidgets absently with one of the pieces of chalk tied to his wrist. "She can be, yes. But she speaks with wisdom more often than not."
Dean sighs, doesn't say another word, just leads Sam to the car and starts his baby up, stroking the dash as she purrs and rumbles beneath his touch.
The Witch sitting in the passenger seat doesn't say anything, doesn't even raise an eyebrow, merely settles in as if he's carving out a place for himself.
Dean's not entirely sure how he feels about that.
--
They drive all day. Sam doesn't say much at first, not as they drive out of the city and then north, Dean with the window down and tracking the chain Azazel's power left with the anchor-point. It's not until they're nine hours away from the Lady's city and in the last hour of her territory, approaching her border with the Healer, that Sam turns in his seat and fixes his eyes on Dean.
Dean glances over, raises an eyebrow in question at the look on the Witch's face. "What?"
"We haven't seen many people since we left the outskirts of Nouvelle Orleans," Sam says. "And the homes since, they're all." He trails off, looks disturbed. "They're quiet. Too quiet. Warded, somehow, but not with a Cast ward."
"Most people live in the High Witches' cities or close to them," Dean says. "The power seeps out enough to scare off all but the most powerful Rogues. The humans who live in the outskirts of the territories, they're tough and they don't trust anyone they don't know. The Scholar -- well," he stops, correcting himself, "the Scholar a few generations back, anyway, got hold of an old grimoire. Turns out there are some things that can repel most of the Rogues: salt, sage, a few other herbs and some runes that anyone can chalk out. That's probably what makes them dead zones to you -- though how you can feel them, it makes me wonder."
Sam swallows, looks out of the window. Dean wants to press but doesn't. Being able to sense a dead zone, an area warded either by natural means or Castings, that's something a Hunter can do, is a skill that's kept more than one Hunter alive by the skin of their teeth. It's not usually something a Witch can do.
"When I travel outside of the compound," Sam says, "I. You could say it's kind of like sending bursts of power out every so often, to see if they run up against anything. These ones, they're bouncing back, which means they hit something, but there isn't a, a Cast-sense to them."
"Cast-sense," Dean says, slowly. "You can sense power?"
Sam shakes his head, looks down at his hands. "Not really. Just the flavour. Y'know, like I'd recognise if a Witch was one of the Element's, or belonged to the Builder. Not a specific person or a signature, though."
Dean whistles low, under his breath. "Still," he says. "That's one hell of a skill." No wonder Sam's the heir, if he can do things like that.
"So the people who live out this far," Sam says, clearly changing the subject. "You said they're different. Are they safe?"
"Some of the best people I know," Dean replies. "A lot of Hunters have home bases near territory lines and we tend to gather far away from the High Witches' cities. If Azazel's trail goes anywhere near some of them, we'll stop and see my friends."
Sam hums, doesn't say anything for a while. "Why do you tend to gather away from the residence cities?" he finally asks.
Dean had been expecting the question. "Hunters can't turn off their senses," he says, "including how we sense and keep track of Witches. The number that gather in residence cities, it doesn't sit well with us."
"Am I bothering you?" Sam asks.
Before Dean can answer, he feels Sam tighten control over his power, tucking it even closer to his body. Dean hadn't noticed Sam's power except as a constant presence, something he'd almost begun to take for granted. Now that it's slunk back, hidden itself, he feels the loss like a punch to his gut. Opening his mouth to say something, he stops, presses his lips together. Some Hunters have fallen prey to specific Casting signatures before, something like an addiction, unable to function without that Witch by their side. Dean doesn't think he's one of them, has never felt the urge to wrap himself in a signature before, but the loss of Sam's doesn't sit right with him.
"Not bothering me," Dean replies. "But thank you."
He ignores the downward tilt of Sam's mouth and keeps driving.
--
When they reach the border between the Lady and the Healer's territory, Dean grins and floors the Impala. "Hold tight," he warns Sam.
The Witch doesn't question the order, simply reaches out and grasps the dash with one hand.
Dean can sense the thick wards across the boundary, can feel the oncoming change from the Lady's territory to the Healer's like a sneeze stuck in his throat.
With a roar, the car breaches the wards and Dean shudders, senses reaching outwards and deciphering the changes in the air. The heady feel of pure sensuality that permeates the air in the Lady's territory is gone here, now, replaced by something that smells clean, close to antiseptic. Dean likes the Healer's territory just for that reason; the High Witch has a tendency to weird Dean out but the overtone to his signature, it's the most clean Dean ever feels.
He looks over, curious to see how Sam's reacting, and slams on the brakes when he sees -- literally sees -- the power leaking out of Sam. A part of him registers the colour, not grey like Jake but a stunning green and gold with darker threads moving in and out in the shadows; the majority of him is focused on stopping the car, getting out and over to Sam's side, pulling the Witch out of the Impala.
Sam tumbles to the ground, hands scrabbling in the dirt as he throws his head up to the sky and screams. Dean steps back, unsure how he can help, the knowledge drummed into him by his father telling him to keep away, to not touch a Witch in the midst of Casting, to not distract a Witch for fear of the Casting breaking, coming back to circle on him. Dean's never seen it happen but he's never seen a lot of things, doesn't make them all lies.
He watches, worried, as Sam takes out one of his ritual knives, hand clenched tight around the hilt, and slices open the palm of his other hand. Sam pants, waits for something. When the blood's dripped into the dirt, Sam reaches down, scoops up a finger-full, and smears the paste across his forehead, down his sternum, over his lips.
"My mind, my heart, my words," Sam says, eyes every muscle in his body tense. "Fealty to Witches, assistance to Hunters, death to Rogues."
He drops the knife, body drawn tight as a bowstring, and then his power swirls around, dancing. The ribbons of green and gold speed up, moving so fast they form a cloud around the Witch too thick for Dean to see through. Sam's gasping for breath, sounds like he's dying, but then the power slams back into Sam's body. The Witch shudders, caught on the edge of something that looks fatal, and the air around Dean is tense with waiting.
Sam slumps, boneless, then slides to the ground as if his muscles and bones have turned liquid inside of his skin. Dean can't sense anything save for the pure scent of the air and faint wardings two hours to their west.
"You okay?" he asks, hesitantly taking one step towards the Witch.
Sam gives him a thumbs up, then lets his arm fall back to the earth.
Dean raises an eyebrow. "Huh. Good. What the hell was that?"
Before Sam can answer, Dean whirls, sensing a Witch's Casting coming their way with intent. He backs up toward Sam, gets out his gun and takes out a sachet of salt from his back pocket. He gears himself up to Shield and says, "We've got company."
Rather than feel Sam pour power into Casting a ward around them, Sam reaches out with his leg and kicks Dean, struggles to sit up. "I know who this is," he says. "It's just a bridge. Stay close, though, and I'll make sure you can hear what's going on."
Dean turns to look at the Witch, incredulous, but Sam focuses and sends out his power to meet the bridge being Cast. With a full-body shudder, Sam’s woven his power into the bridge, sustaining his side of the Casting. Dean’s close enough to hear the Witch on the other end say, "--uel? You did not have to do that. If what the Dreamer says is true, you should be saving your strength."
"I'm fine," Sam replies. Dean blinks at the tone, a combination of respect and playfulness. The Witch grins widely and says, "May I be of service, Healer?"
'The Healer?' Dean mouths, and Sam nods, holds up a hand. Dean grasps it, heaves Sam up, and has the Witch's hand on his chest a moment later; Sam overbalanced and leans against Dean to keep from falling.
Dean flushes, makes sure Sam can stand upright without help before turning away, staring out over the flat plains of the Healer's far territory, listening as the Healer says, "I thought I might be."
Sam elbows Dean; the Hunter turns and sees a frown on Sam's face. "Not that we wouldn't appreciate any help you're offering, Healer, but," Sam says.
The High Witch cuts Sam off, asks, "Is the Hunter there? Can he hear me?" Sam answers in the affirmative and the Healer says, "Good. This concerns you both. The Dreamer said she saw you entering my territory and I only just felt it, Samuel. If I'd had more time, I would have keyed you into the wards. Since you're here, though, I highly recommend you get your asses over to the mountains. The Rogue's hiding out near my border with the Singer but won't stay there for long. Got that?"
"Got it," Dean replies. "Thank you. And thank the Dreamer for us, too, if you talk to her." Dean walks away, towards the car, already planning a route in his mind. The mountains, that's a long stretch, but he'll catch the scent again once he gets out that way, is saving him and Sam time by cutting out any pit-stops Azazel made along the way.
He's still close enough to hear the Healer say, "I like this one. Me 'n the Lady, Samuel, we don't agree on much, but this? This, we agree on."
Dean's in the car, ready to move on, when Sam enters quietly, cheeks flushed. "Something I should know?" he asks mildly.
"No," Sam says. The Witch can't meet Dean's eyes. Dean decides not to push the issue.
Part Three