Entangled Alliances | 3 of 3
Part Two
It's rare that a town springs up within an hour of a territory line but Deseret's as safe as anything not on the ocean can be. The town's right next to the Salt Lake; the inhabitants have layered the very ground they eat, breathe, and sleep on with salt. Added to that, the entire town is strung with wards and Cast-strong pots of water that are replenished once a month thanks to a Witch contact of theirs in the Singer's territory.
Dean feels his shoulders relax as soon as they cross into Deseret, parks the car in front of the town's only tavern. "Come on," he says, undoing his seat belt and opening the car, making sure he has the keys and his weapons, all without looking at the Witch.
"Why are we here?" Sam asks, quietly. Dean looks over, wonders why the hell Sam looks as though he's expecting a trap.
"This is home," Dean says, shrugging. "I have friends here. If any of 'em have heard of a Rogue this far west, they'll pass the word on."
Sam doesn't look like he buys it. "I thought the road was home," he presses. "Hunting, you said. A life without luxuries."
Granted, the past couple days have been pure travel, nothing but sitting in the Impala as she made her way from Nouvelle Orleans all the way out here, sleeping on the ground when they get tired, scrounging for food in the forests, mushrooms and what wildlife they could catch, snacking on the few things Sam brought with him from the Lady's residence. The first day out of the Lady's territory was easy; the Healer's territory isn't nearly as easy to drive through, no major roads, half of the side roads dead-ending and forcing them to retrace their path. It's taken them almost a week to travel twice the distance they covered in one day, leaving the Lady's city.
Dean's father always said that Hunting was more about patience than anything else. Every time he said that, John had a look in his eyes. It was the same look John always had talking about Witches, which has made Dean wonder more than once.
Sam hadn't complained, not one word. Dean's kept saying that Sam can't expect more than he's had so far, wondered if the Witch would call it quits after a couple days. Sam hasn't, hasn't hesitated to do anything, even Cast a fire to roast rabbits, and he's hesitant to soak in the atmosphere of a town?
"Dude, what is your problem?" Dean asks.
Sam flinches, eyes shuttering closed, and shakes his head. "Forget it," he mutters. The Witch opens the door, gets out, and doesn't slam the door when he closes it.
Dean winces.
--
He can't figure out why Sam's walking around like he's got a target painted on his back, hunched over and trying to seem smaller than he is. It's fucking ridiculous, this giant man acting as if people won't see him. Dean gives up trying to make sense of the Witch's mind, thinks that assuming a Witch would make sense was his first mistake, and heads for Ellen's Roadhouse.
The Roadhouse is in full swing when Dean walks in, Sam behind him. No one stops what they're doing but every single set of eyes takes in Dean first, then the guy behind him. Ellen lifts a towel, waves it, inviting Dean to the bar; Dean heads in that direction and hears Sam behind him.
"Long time since we've seen you," Ellen says, once Dean's perched on a stool. She slides a glass over to Dean, beer riding the edge but not falling over. "Your boy there want a drink?"
Dean looks up at Sam, who's still standing, and grins. "You wanna drink?"
Sam glances down at Dean, eyes shadowed, and then turns to Ellen. "I'd appreciate it, ma'am," he replies, giving her a smile that Dean can tell is fake.
Ellen seems to buy it, though, judging by the gleam in her expression and the way she pulls Sam a beer right away. "What brings you this way, Dean? And aren't you gonna introduce me?" She looks at Sam, adds, "I always like to know who's coming through my place."
"Sam," the Witch says, offering Ellen his hand. "From the Lady's territory. Nice to meet you."
Dean's mildly impressed: there's no hint of what Sam really is, not introducing himself as being from the larger territory instead of the smaller city, making the lack of a last name seem like a purposeful subtraction.
"M'name's Ellen, and if you're riding with Dean, you've picked a good one," she says. "Now, why're you boys here?"
"We're Hunting," Dean says. "Heading north but I wanted to check in first."
Ellen looks ready to say something but her eyes flicker, focus on something or someone behind Dean and Sam. Dean turns, lays eyes on a damn good Hunter who, funnily enough, he can't stand.
"North," Gordon Walker says, eyes narrowed. "Hunting a Rogue this close to Deseret you just thought, what, you'd stop in first and make sure one of us isn't helping it?"
"Hey now," Ellen says, holding up one hand. "Dean didn't say anything about that, Gordon. Nothing wrong with stopping in to check on old friends, see how everyone's doing."
Gordon gives Ellen a long glance, finally nods. He's not backing down, though, and it's clear enough to see. "Sorry, Ellen. But some questions have to be asked. It's been too long since Dean's been here and he's been working with Witches since the last time." The Roadhouse has gone utterly silent and an ugly tension fills the atmosphere as Gordon adds, "Word is, one of them Witches was helping a higher Rogue than any of us has ever dealt with."
Dean's so used to the feel of Sam's power that he almost misses the way it starts to coil up, swirl around Dean. Almost, and that's unforgivable, but Sam Casting any power into this situation is guaranteed to make people with itchy trigger fingers start reaching for their guns.
He expects Gordon to notice, expects any and every Hunter in the place to notice, but no one says anything. They're clearly waiting for Dean to refute the implicit accusation but it's so ridiculous that Dean can't think of anything to say.
"Word also is that the Witch is dead," Sam says, quietly. He straightens up, putting every inch of height and pound of muscle to use as he goes on to say, "And it's no fault of Dean's. There's a bad apple in every bunch but they can hide well enough to pass without notice. Usually with a great deal of bluster and redirection."
Gordon bristles at the insinuation and he steps closer. Ellen clears her throat and Dean turns enough to see her lifting a gun from under the counter, one eye still on Gordon. "What are you, then?" Gordon asks Sam. "What's your last name and where do you come from, really?"
Dean's heart skips a beat and then his stomach drops as he sees Sam's power circle around Gordon's throat, hands, stomach, twirling into barbed wire. He opens his mouth but Sam's already answering. "I have a place on the outskirts of the Healer's city. And my last name's just that: mine. Why should I give it to you when I haven't even given it to Dean?"
Dean presses his lips together and glares at Gordon, impressed against his will with Sam's quick retort. "Look, he helped me track an anchor-point and put a name to the traitor Witch's signature. He's one of the good ones."
"According to your judgment," Gordon says softly.
Dean flicks his eyes around the bar, weighs the near-anticipatory tinge of violence in the air against Sam's power, still flooding out of the Witch's body and mixing with the air to fill the Roadhouse like some kind of toxin, one moment away from lethal. He stands, chugs the rest of his beer, and turns away from Gordon, trusting Sam to watch his back. "Thanks, Ellen," he says, digging in his pocket for some coins, setting them on the counter. "Sorry."
She gives Dean a lopsided smile. "You're always welcome here, Dean," she says, the words ringing clear over the bar. "You and your daddy both. You're good men."
Dean nods, gives Sam a look, and they walk out of the Roadhouse, both of them tense and waiting for the opening shot.
--
Two hours northeast of Deseret, Dean finally asks, "Did you know that was going to happen?"
Sam glances over, quick, then looks back out of the front window, same as he's been doing since they left the town. "No," he says. "But it was a given, wasn't it? Triple Cert walks into a bar with a guy no one knows, not long after he was fucked over by a Witch-gone-bad."
Put like that, Dean feels like an idiot, only, "How could they find out about Jake so fast? I mean, it was only the day before we left Nouvelle Orleans, and we drove straight here."
"Bad news travels fast," Sam replies.
Ain't that the truth.
Dean grits his teeth, says, "Sorry." When Sam looks over again, eyebrow raised and clearly waiting, Dean rolls his eyes. "Look, you were right, okay? What do you want, my left arm?"
"I never said it was a bad idea," Sam says.
"Dude," Dean says. "Dude. You didn't have to. Your complete and utter bitchface said it for you."
For a second, Dean thinks that Sam's going to glare and go back to giving Dean the silent treatment, but the Witch's lips twitch. The next second, Sam's laughing, head back, full body shaking.
If Dean cared more about his reputation, he'd scoff and turn the music up louder. As it is, at the sight of Sam's throat stretched out long and smooth, the way the Witch's entire body is given over to laughter, the way Dean feels, he keeps his mouth shut and feasts his eyes.
--
They bed down for the night in the middle of the New Valais Forest, the northwestern-most corner of the Healer's territory, bordering on the Scholar's wards with the Planter's land not far away either. Dean's worried about how Sam will sleep but the Witch merely hums when Dean asks him, taking out packs from the Impala's trunk.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Dean grouses, as Sam's Casting a spark to light the fire carefully contained by stones and Sam's power. "'Mmmm?' I'm sorry, I don't speak that language."
Sam snorts, says, "It means that it won't bother me. No great secret."
Dean looks over his shoulder at the Witch, who's too focused on coaxing the fire to catch to pay Dean any attention. Taking advantage of his chance, Dean straightens up, crosses his arms, stares. Sam's lit by the fire, only slightly at first, features blending into the night, more and more as the fire grows. Sam blows on the kindling, sparks flying up and hissing out against the ward Sam's placed even as Dean can feel the air start to heat.
"There," Sam murmurs, almost too low for Dean to hear. The Witch looks up, eyes immediately locking with Dean's; they stare at each other, frozen, caught on the verge of something that Dean yearns for even as he steps back. Still, he can't tear his eyes away from Sam's, the cant of the Witch's eyes echoing the angles of his cheekbones, the wildly curling hair falling over Sam's ears.
A noise in the forest has the Witch standing up in a fluid motion, power called up and ready to Cast, has Dean whirling around, gun out and aimed. "Hello?" Dean calls out, squinting as he peers into the darkness. "Is anyone there?"
Sam touches him, puts his fingers on Dean's shoulder, a light gesture. Dean looks at the Witch, nods, and Sam Casts out a line of power, steady and slow, sweeping through the trees.
"Just a deer," he murmurs. "You probably scared it away."
Dean nods, puts his gun away. Sam doesn't move back so Dean does, running a hand through his hair, walking over to the fire and putting out his hands as though he's warming them. He doesn't need to; his entire body is strung tense, overheated and aching for something he's too cowardly to name.
"We'll have to cross into the Scholar's territory tomorrow," Dean finally says, when the silence is becoming overwhelming. "Azazel's signature crosses the wards but I won't know where the Rogue's heading until we do as well. Will you be okay?"
Sam circles around Dean, giving the Hunter a wide berth, eventually stopping across the small fire from Dean. "Yeah," he says. "And if you want more than rabbit for dinner, I might be able to snare that deer. We won't have much time to dress it, though."
Dean grins, gives it some serious thought. Eventually he shakes his head. "You're right, we don't have the time. We're getting closer to Azazel; his scent's stronger here than it has been since the anchor-point. It's gonna have to be rabbit. Again."
"Good thing there're three behind you," Sam says, returning Dean's grin with a cocky smile of his own. "So go and Hunt for our dinner."
"Can't you Cast for them?" Dean asks. He already knows what Sam's going to say, so when the Witch opens his mouth, Dean says the words right along with him.
"That'd be cheating."
Sam grins, makes a shooing motion with his hands that, not so coincidentally, makes the flames stretch and dance.
Dean grumbles, "Yeah, yeah," but he still goes and tracks the rabbits, takes the smallest one.
--
They eat well, laugh and joke and ignore the fact that they're getting closer to Azazel with every mile they cover. Dean lays in his sleeping bag, the fire burning and smoking at his side, and doesn't think about the Witch sleeping mere feet from him, warm and long and lean.
Sleep is elusive but the fevered dreams Dean has when he finds himself dozing off, those are enough to jerk him awake every time, dick hard and aching.
With a huff, Dean turns his back to the fire, to Sam, and scrunches his eyes closed, counts sheep until the bird's start singing and Sam sits up, yawning, mumbling, "Time to get up?"
--
They cross the Scholar's territory wards with less trouble than the Healer's; Sam says it has more to do with the reason people travel this far north than security being lax or more lenient. There's no bridge Cast their way, no sign that any other Witch has noticed them entering the territory; Dean keeps waiting but nothing happens.
It puts him on guard, driving him closer and closer to a razor-sharp readiness that all Hunters search for, but only when they're right on the target's heels. Dean's not close enough to Azazel to put this to use and the only person within any kind of distance is Sam; the Witch might be up for a roll in the sack or a tussle, but Dean's sure as hell not going to raise the issue.
Sam eventually asks, "It's more than Azazel, right?" Dean asks what the fuck the Witch is talking about and Sam gestures, says, "What has you so tense right now. It's more than the Rogue." Dean doesn't say anything. "I'm right, I know I am. It's been getting worse ever since we crossed the territory wards. Come on, what's wrong?"
"You can't tell?" Dean snaps. "Here I thought you were a fucking Witch, Sam."
"I don't read minds," Sam says, softly.
Dean slams on the brakes; the Impala squeals as she stops, tyres spinning. He doesn't look over at the Witch, keeps his hands clenched around the steering wheel. "Don't read minds?" he asks. "Don't read minds? Are you saying you can? Fucking hell, Sam, what the fuck are you doing at the Lady's? If you can read minds, you should be with the Singer. Those wards you can Cast, the General or the Builder should've fought over you. And hell, some of the things you said before, the way you knew what would happen in Deseret, maybe you should've gone to the Dreamer."
"I'm one of the Lady's," Sam says. His tone is firm but not argumentative; still, Dean bristles.
"How can you know?" Dean asks, voice turning needle-sharp. "You haven't taken anyone back to your bedroom. There's no way anyone could know you're one of the Lady's, not when you haven't even fucked anyone."
Sam's jaw clenches. "Casting strengths are hereditary," he says.
Dean blinks. He opens his mouth, closes it again, shakes his head. "I'm sorry," he says. "But I could've sworn you just. Your mother was a Witch? One of the Lady's Witches?"
Sam snorts, looks down at his lap, the hands folded together tightly. "My mother is the Lady."
"No," Dean says. It takes a minute for what Sam's said to process, mind recalling every interaction Dean witnessed between the Lady and Sam: the way Sam was kneeling at her feet, hugging her legs, when Dean first met them both, the way she held out her hand and Sam brushed past him to take it, the way Sam asked permission to leave and she granted it. Sam's mannerisms, they aren't the way a Witch brought up from a young age in a compound would act. They're the actions of a Witch raised since birth by another Witch.
Dean does the math, finally says, "She was already the Lady when she had you. She'd held Nouvelle Orleans for, what, nine years?"
"Eight," Sam says. He won't look at Dean, keeps looking down. The Witch has all the same expressions as a kicked puppy and Dean can't help the sigh. Sam tenses, shoulders hunching closer, and he asks, "Will you send me back?"
Dean honestly thinks about it. It's one thing to know he has the Lady's heir riding shotgun, is quite another to know that the Witch next to him, the one that makes his blood sing, the one he trusts at his side, is the Lady's blood heir. There's a whole level of power there that Dean can't comprehend.
"How far back can you trace your Casting ancestry?" Dean asks. "The Lady gave you my lineage the first time we met. A Winchester."
"Was in the king's company at the first Battle of London," Sam says, cutting Dean off. "And my ancestor was one of the Witches brought over from the continent the next month."
Dean swallows. Hunters don't inherit the talents of their parents, Hunters or not; something about the genetic code of a Hunter won't allow it and there's never a guarantee that the son or daughter of a Hunter will, in turn, be a Hunter. That the Winchesters have been, ever since the beginning, since the Rogues unleashed or Cast whatever it was that separated Hunters, Witches, and humans, it's been a miracle. The fact that every Winchester Hunter has been so good, so talented, has only added to their near-legendary status.
Witches are different, always have been. Every Witch child of a Witch possesses their own power but builds on the strength and gifts of their parent. For Sam to be able to trace his ancestry back to the beginning explains the power of his Casting signature. With the inheritance Sam has running in his blood, there's no doubt in Dean's mind that he knows exactly what his talents are and how to use them even if he hasn't yet. The thought turns Dean's mouth dry, mind cycling through everything Sam might know, might be able to do, might want to do.
"The dagger," Dean says. "You brought it out of your bedroom before we left. You tied it to your leg and you've never taken it off. It's a family heirloom?"
Sam nods but doesn't otherwise speak. His body language is practically screaming wariness, and Dean could kick himself. He knows better than to act like this.
"No Witch said anything," Dean finally says. At Sam's puzzled look, Dean puts the Impala in gear, straightens her out, and starts driving in pursuit of Azazel again. "You asked what made me jittery. You didn't respond to the Scholar's territory wards and we weren't contacted by a Witch. That can't be right."
Sam eyes Dean for a long moment. Dean can see the exact second that the tension starts leaking out of Sam's muscles, taking the peace offering for what it is and not pressing Dean for a full-out apology. Dean appreciates that; it makes him think better of the Witch.
"Witches come in and out of the Scholar's territory all the time," Sam says. "If a new Witch is born, they come here until they display some sign of a potential talent and most Witches will come to the Scholar's compound at least once during their life to study. To ward the boundaries as tightly as the Healer doesn't make sense. The Healer needs to know who's coming in and from what direction in order to be prepared for any Casting he or his Witches might need to perform. Also, the Healer's territory is central to the country and he likes to have an idea of who might be crossing through. If the Scholar warded as securely, he would need a legion of Witches to keep track of boundary disturbances. He doesn't have enough oath-bound Witches to do that."
"Makes sense," Dean says, thoughtfully. He's always felt the wards between the territories, any Hunter would, but rarely thought about the reasons for the difference in potency. "Have you ever been to the Scholar's compound?"
Sam grins, tucks one errant curl of hair behind his ear. "I was nine," he says. "I was meant to stay up there for a summer. The Scholar sent me home to the Lady five weeks early, washed his hands of me and told me never to come back."
Dean laughs, imagining a young Sam running wild through the streets of the Gemini Cities, smudging priceless grimoires and inciting revolt among the staid, bookworm Witches that the Scholar's sworn followers tend to personify.
"You call her the Lady," he eventually says, once he's stopped laughing. "Not your mother. There a reason for that?"
Sam gazes out of the window; when Dean looks over, he sees the Witch staring ahead without seeing anything, deep in thought, perhaps even lost somewhere in his memories. Dean wishes he could follow Sam, hates that he can't. "There are things I imagine a mother would do, ways she would act. The Lady never has. I'm her heir; there's no reason I have to be her son as well."
Dean can't imagine what that would be like. He assumed, at first, that Sam was an orphan, sent to the Lady when his talents developed and it was clear which overtone his Castings would take. Knowing that he has a mother but that she's never treated him like a son, that's almost worse. Dean's father wasn't overly affectionate but Dean knew that he was loved, that even if he hadn't been a Hunter, his father wouldn't have abandoned him to someone else.
"I'm sorry," he says, having rooted around for something -- anything -- else to say other than a trite, overused apology.
The Witch shrugs, picks at something under a fingernail. "Like I said, I'm her heir. I have her in ways other people never will, even her favourites."
Dean wants to say more but even he can tell when someone's said enough. Sam left him alone earlier, there's no reason he can't return the favour now. "Not much longer before we catch up with the Rogue. Azazel's on foot, I think. Few hours, tonight at the latest."
Sam nods.
Music's playing, volume low; other than that, other than the noises the Impala makes every so often, it's quiet. With Sam at his side, the quiet, the calm, isn't oppressive, not the way it used to be when it was him in the passenger seat, his father driving.
Dean likes it. He thinks, maybe, he likes it too much.
--
They start stopping every thirty minutes. Dean can track a Rogue from inside a moving car but Azazel's a tricky son of a bitch and they're to the point now where a turn caught too late might set them back hours again; a missed anchor-point connection could prolong this Hunt for weeks. So, to make sure that doesn't happen, he pulls over and Shields Sam, waits for the Witch to Cast a dispelling ward, and then sends out his senses to track the Rogue.
The two don't speak, doing this, just settle into a routine that becomes habit by the third time Dean parks the Impala and gets out, standing on the side of the road. He doesn't think twice about forming a Shield to keep the Witch safe and hidden from the Rogue, hardly notices the feel of Sam's ward sweeping out from their position in an ever-widening circle. Dean knows he should probably be worried at how normal this has all become, at how much he likes it, but he can't bring himself to care, not when he can feel them closing the distance to Azazel one mile at a time.
The eighth time they stop, only fifteen minutes since the last, Dean closes his eyes and breathes in deep, gripping the anchor-point from the Lady's territory tightly in one hand. "We're close," he says, the words floating out of his mouth on the edge of an exhale. "I don't think Azazel is moving anymore. He must be holed up somewhere." Sam nods, is quiet. Dean looks over, can tell the Witch is debating saying something. "What?" Dean asks.
"I should warn the Scholar," Sam replies. "In case I have to use the chalk."
"In case you need a ritual to dispel Azazel," Dean says, understanding exactly what Sam's saying. "If he's as strong as they say he is, you think you'll need to perform a Major Casting?"
Sam shrugs, finally looks at Dean. His pupils are tiny, pinpricks of black, as if he's been staring into the sun. "I don't know but it's better to be safe than sorry."
Dean hums, chews on his bottom lip for a few seconds as he thinks. "Can you do it without Casting a bridge? Azazel might be able to feel that and he'll run if he thinks there's a Witch close to him. I can Shield you but there's no way I can Shield a bridge to the Gemini Cities."
With a grin, Sam drops to one knee, places his palm on the ground and closes his eyes. Sam's nostrils flare as he inhales deep, holds the breath for five seconds, then lets it out through his lips. "I can Cast a message without needing a bridge," he says. "The ground here will work just fine."
Making a gesture meant to say 'get on with it, then,' Dean leans against the Impala, spreading out the Shield he has over the pair of them to cover a larger section of land, doming it around them. He watches as Sam takes a piece of chalk from the ties holding it to one wrist and draws something on the ground, the intensity of Sam's Casting power jumping several degrees as the Witch funnels it towards a specific purpose.
Sam leans down, blows over the chalk drawing, then spits on top of the drawing, chalk and saliva mixing. Dean straightens up, suddenly worried, because saliva, that's close to a Major Casting and his Shields are good but they aren't good enough to contain one of those.
The Witch places his hands to either side of the drawing, bending down and whispering into the ground. Dean's Shield buckles and he fights to hold it, getting a split-second glimpse of the power that rides the edge of a Major Casting. Stunned, the momentary distraction is enough to set cracks in his Shield; Dean grits his teeth and fights but he knows he's going to lose control.
Just on the brink of the Shield falling apart and giving their position away, something props it up, weaves in and around it, strengthening it. Dean pants, feels pressure riding his shoulders like gravity pushing him down, but he's a Winchester and so he fights, letting what feels like a second Shield help him, whip around and fill in the cracks around them as Dean holds the shape.
Dean's so focused on figuring out what the hell that second Shield is and where it came from that he staggers when Sam swipes his hand through the chalk, breaking the Casting. The pressure he's been holding off suddenly leaves and he feels like he can breathe again, but the sense of that second Shield, alien and yet uncomfortably familiar, disappears as well.
Dean wants to kill. For the few moments it was present, that Shield merged with Dean's, a connection deeper than friendship, deeper than blood. He wants the person who made it to stand in front of him, he wants to punch the Hunter then fuck the living daylights out of whoever it was, male or female doesn't matter, nothing matters except finding the thrice-damned Hunter.
"Hey," Sam says, reaching out. Dean sways back, out of arm's length, and skitters away. He can feel madness clawing at him, a solitude and loneliness so painful it will kill him if it lasts any longer. He calls up every ounce of skill he has, scents the air for a track he can Hunt, bites his tongue and spits blood on the ground, can't focus, can't seem to breathe, screams and sends himself spiralling out of his body, and he, he --
A Witch's power circles Dean, holds him tight. With a reaction born more from Dean's instincts than any conscious thought, he gives in, lets the signature wrap around him and calm him until he can think again. The signature is powerful but the power isn't warped, isn't trying to burrow inside of him or leave him open to attack; it twirls green and gold, and the sheer depth it possesses gives Dean time to claw back to sanity.
Dean opens his eyes to see Sam standing right in front of him, eyes worried, a few specks of blood splattered on his face.
"Another Hunter," Dean rasps. His eyes are locked with Sam's. "Another Hunter buoyed up my Shield. Did you see anyone?"
Sam is still, every bit of him, even his hair which should be blowing in the wind Dean can feel. "You Cast a Major Ritual," Sam says. His voice is even, without inflection. "You used your own blood and you Cast yourself on the wind."
Dean flinches. He tries to step backwards but the look in his Sam's eyes compels him to remain where he is. "You're imagining things," Dean says, adding a laugh in to give credence to his words. His blood's gone cold, sluggish, and he wonders if this is what it feels like to be caught in a lie that's enveloped an entire life. Sam will kill him. No matter what they share, what might be, whatever the Lady thinks, Sam will have to kill him by the laws they both follow.
An Alliance between Hunters and Witches will never last in the face of a person who is both at the same time.
Dean stares at Sam, studies the Witch. Sam held him back, gave him time to find his mind and get settled. Sam spread his power out and cradled Dean in it, a gesture of trust so profound and so rare that any other Hunter would laugh and call bullshit if Dean told them.
"I've never had training," Dean finally says, giving breath to a secret he's kept his entire life. "I don't know how to be a Witch. All I know how to do is Hunt."
Sam studies him, looks deeper into Dean than anyone else has, ever. "That's how you killed Alistair. As a Hunter-Witch hybrid, you could Hunt, Shield, and Cast." He pauses, snorts, says, "A real Triple Cert."
Dean doesn't argue. He waits, instead. His eyes never leave Sam's.
The Witch finally breathes out; they are standing so close to each other that Dean can feel the puff of air against his own skin. "This is one of those things we said we'd talk about after the Hunt," Sam says. "That you're both. That I am as well."
Dean can only stare. "You're. You. What?"
"I can Shield my signature, how powerful it is," Sam says, "and I can sense signatures. I can track them. But I can't Shield myself entirely and I can't Shield anyone else. I can't Hunt. I've never had training how to be a Hunter. I'm a Witch. I can just, I can just do a few extra things, too."
There's no way this is happening. There's no way Sam, out of everyone on the planet, could be like Dean; the odds of someone else being a hybrid, as Sam called it, are astronomical. The odds that it's someone Dean likes, gets along with, wants to see how well he can get along with, they have to be impossible.
"It was you, wasn't it," he says, mind reeling, unable to process anything else. "The second Shield. No one else was. The Hunter who helped Cast the wards for Nouvelle Orleans. It was you."
Sam nods. "It was me."
Dean stares, drinks in the sight of Sam's face, then lurches forward, fisting his hands in Sam's shirt. He tugs the Witch closer, pulls Sam off-balance then bites his way into Sam's mouth, tongue sweeping a moment later to take out the sting. Sam doesn't resist but he doesn't join in either; the fury rising in Dean's veins has him stepping back, wiping off his mouth with the back of his hand, glaring at the Witch.
"You want it," he snarls. "You want me, I know you do."
The Witch regards him carefully; the sight of his flushed cheeks, wrinkled shirt soothes something deep inside of Dean. Dean has always been a predator, and the people he's slept with, they're all, to that animal part of his brain, little better than prey to be taken in the Hunt. Sam, though. Sam's a predator as well. Dean's brain supplies the word 'equal,' and he bares his teeth, wanting to see Sam fighting, taking, claiming, just as much as Dean plans on doing.
"Azazel is close," Sam says. "In fact, I think he's coming to us."
That does a lot to get Dean focused in a hurry.
--
They agree that the Rogue is heading their way; Dean scents Azazel and the Rogue's track is doubling back towards them; Sam sends out a whipline of power along the ground that brings back Azazel's unique signature.
"Our conversation isn't over," Dean says.
"When this is done," Sam says, so mildly that Dean doesn't realise at first that the Witch is arguing, "it won't be a conversation."
Dean grins, can feel himself approaching a Hunter's edge of awareness again. This time, he doesn't fight it. The Rogue is coming and he has an equal at his side, someone who's already proved he has Dean's back in a fight but won't hesitate to stand up to him when it's only the two of them.
With a rare and supreme lack of care, Dean opens his Shield and waits for the Rogue to arrive.
--
Azazel comes on foot, taking shape as he walks towards them with a cocky jaunt to his stride. He's close, closer than Dean feels strictly comfortable with, by the time he finally stops moving, head cocked as his yellow eyes glance between Dean and Sam.
"Thought I'd say hello," he says. The Rogue's voice grates Dean's nerves, slides down Dean's awareness like a city full of Witches. "See how you boys were doing. Check in on you, you know how it goes."
"Can't say I do," Sam replies, beating Dean to the response. "I've never met one of you before. Now that I have, I wish I hadn't." Sam grins and Dean can feel Sam shift, just a minute resettling of his weight. That means he's ready for the wave of power that Sam unleashes in Azazel's direction.
In the same instant that Sam calls his power and sends it outwards, Dean sets a Shield around the Rogue, uses what little Casting ability he has to reinforce it with wards. Azazel shouldn't be able to get out before Sam's Casting hits him.
They watch, wait for the wave of power to simmer down and see what's left standing. When the power clears, green and gold motes of light fading into the air, dust falling back to the ground, Dean can't believe his eyes. Azazel's still standing there, looks completely unaffected. Dean's eyes narrow.
"Gonna have to do better than that, boys," the Rogue says, pretending to check his nails. He looks up, grinning, and pretends to shiver. "Tickled a little."
Dean glances at Sam, sees the Witch's cheeks pale even as Sam's hands tighten into fists. "Why did you come back?" Sam asks.
Azazel's teeth gleam in the sun as a corona of black appears around the Rogue. Dean instantly recognises the colour from the anchor-point, the signatures Sam pulled out of the stone. "Why, I just had to meet you," he says. "John Winchester's progeny, the blood of the Lady. A Triple-Cert Master Hunter and the Dreamer's favourite Witchling. You're going to be quite the pair, boys, and I'll be able to say I saw you before you made it big."
Sam twitches. Dean's not sure why but then Sam bursts into action, one hand drawing a knife in the same instant the other slips a piece of chalk free, dropping to his knees and spitting out something in a language Dean doesn't recognise. Azazel laughs even as Sam's slicing over his palm, rubbing the chalk with blood before tracing out a line of symbols on the ground.
"You can try all you want, little Sammy," the Rogue says, half on his way to cackling. "Nothing's gonna work against me."
Power breaks apart and hell breaks open.
The ground shakes, trembling hard enough to shake apart. The air fills with rainbows of colour as Sam's normal Casting signature takes on hues of rose, yellow, even a pale blue. Azazel's laugh turns deadly as black power emerges from his mouth, clashing with Sam's power and filling the sky with violet lightning.
Dean's senses are going haywire, all of his abilities telling him to get the hell out of the way before one of those lightning strikes gets too close for comfort. His instincts, though, those he listens to. Barely knowing what he's doing, he weaves his power in with Sam's Major Casting, loans Sam all of the power he has at his command.
The ground splits under his feet, a long, jagged crack running to Azazel and stopping, pounding away at a Shield or ward the Rogue has up. Dean can feel the hammering like his heart skipping beats. The feel of a Witch nearby and the power Azazel's releasing are rioting in his head until he can't think, can't do any more than feed more and more of himself to Sam.
Dean isn't sure how long it lasts but Sam's pushing Azazel's power back inch by agonising inch. As if the Rogue can see that they're winning, Azazel snarls out, "Tell your parents I said hello, Winchesters."
The Rogue disappears in a clash of thunder, and the air clears in time for Dean to scream in fury and frustration.
--
"I should have tracked down the fucking anchor-point," Dean says, later that night while they're lying next to a fire, back in the Healer's territory. He's said it over and over again since Azazel gave them the slip, can't focus on anything else. He let Azazel go. If only he'd been paying attention, the Rogue might be dead already.
Sam told him it wasn't his fault after Dean took on the blame of failure, gave up trying to convince Dean and hasn't said a word since. He does now, twisting in his sleeping bag, peering at Dean through his bangs and across the fire.
"You should have tracked the anchor-point and I should have gone straight to a pas de la diablerie, not bothered with one knife, fine," Sam says. "But I think we have bigger issues."
Dean gives Sam a look of complete and utter shock. "Bigger things to worry about?" he repeats, incredulous. "What, are you out of your fucking mind? I just made a rookie mistake out there and it cost us. It cost us big, Sam."
"Azazel called us Winchesters," Sam replies. "Plural."
"I don't," Dean starts to say, stops and thinks back. When he finds the memory, he freezes, eyes going wide as he misses one breath, then two. "He did."
Sam nods, repositions himself and goes back to staring at the sky. "It would make sense. Hunter-Witch hybrids, and your signature has overtones that read like one of the Lady's Witches. Besides, your father was in Nouvelle Orleans around the right times. The first to impregnate the Lady, the second to pick you up, the third to sire me. The fourth, that one I don't know, unless he came back to make sure I wasn't a Hunter."
"Nothing Azazel could hope to touch," Dean whispers. "Nothing Azazel could take from the Lady. Sam, do you really think?"
He trails off into nothing. They'd be brothers, then. Both of them freaks, both of them equals, bound by blood as well as sex -- when they eventually get to have it. Dean stops there, holds his breath as he asks, "Do you still. I mean, will you want."
Sam looks at him, eyes glinting in the light of the fire, smile curving his lips. "When this is over," he says, "it won't be a conversation."
Dean returns the grin. "Get some sleep, then," he says. "We have a Rogue to catch."
It's rare that a town springs up within an hour of a territory line but Deseret's as safe as anything not on the ocean can be. The town's right next to the Salt Lake; the inhabitants have layered the very ground they eat, breathe, and sleep on with salt. Added to that, the entire town is strung with wards and Cast-strong pots of water that are replenished once a month thanks to a Witch contact of theirs in the Singer's territory.
Dean feels his shoulders relax as soon as they cross into Deseret, parks the car in front of the town's only tavern. "Come on," he says, undoing his seat belt and opening the car, making sure he has the keys and his weapons, all without looking at the Witch.
"Why are we here?" Sam asks, quietly. Dean looks over, wonders why the hell Sam looks as though he's expecting a trap.
"This is home," Dean says, shrugging. "I have friends here. If any of 'em have heard of a Rogue this far west, they'll pass the word on."
Sam doesn't look like he buys it. "I thought the road was home," he presses. "Hunting, you said. A life without luxuries."
Granted, the past couple days have been pure travel, nothing but sitting in the Impala as she made her way from Nouvelle Orleans all the way out here, sleeping on the ground when they get tired, scrounging for food in the forests, mushrooms and what wildlife they could catch, snacking on the few things Sam brought with him from the Lady's residence. The first day out of the Lady's territory was easy; the Healer's territory isn't nearly as easy to drive through, no major roads, half of the side roads dead-ending and forcing them to retrace their path. It's taken them almost a week to travel twice the distance they covered in one day, leaving the Lady's city.
Dean's father always said that Hunting was more about patience than anything else. Every time he said that, John had a look in his eyes. It was the same look John always had talking about Witches, which has made Dean wonder more than once.
Sam hadn't complained, not one word. Dean's kept saying that Sam can't expect more than he's had so far, wondered if the Witch would call it quits after a couple days. Sam hasn't, hasn't hesitated to do anything, even Cast a fire to roast rabbits, and he's hesitant to soak in the atmosphere of a town?
"Dude, what is your problem?" Dean asks.
Sam flinches, eyes shuttering closed, and shakes his head. "Forget it," he mutters. The Witch opens the door, gets out, and doesn't slam the door when he closes it.
Dean winces.
--
He can't figure out why Sam's walking around like he's got a target painted on his back, hunched over and trying to seem smaller than he is. It's fucking ridiculous, this giant man acting as if people won't see him. Dean gives up trying to make sense of the Witch's mind, thinks that assuming a Witch would make sense was his first mistake, and heads for Ellen's Roadhouse.
The Roadhouse is in full swing when Dean walks in, Sam behind him. No one stops what they're doing but every single set of eyes takes in Dean first, then the guy behind him. Ellen lifts a towel, waves it, inviting Dean to the bar; Dean heads in that direction and hears Sam behind him.
"Long time since we've seen you," Ellen says, once Dean's perched on a stool. She slides a glass over to Dean, beer riding the edge but not falling over. "Your boy there want a drink?"
Dean looks up at Sam, who's still standing, and grins. "You wanna drink?"
Sam glances down at Dean, eyes shadowed, and then turns to Ellen. "I'd appreciate it, ma'am," he replies, giving her a smile that Dean can tell is fake.
Ellen seems to buy it, though, judging by the gleam in her expression and the way she pulls Sam a beer right away. "What brings you this way, Dean? And aren't you gonna introduce me?" She looks at Sam, adds, "I always like to know who's coming through my place."
"Sam," the Witch says, offering Ellen his hand. "From the Lady's territory. Nice to meet you."
Dean's mildly impressed: there's no hint of what Sam really is, not introducing himself as being from the larger territory instead of the smaller city, making the lack of a last name seem like a purposeful subtraction.
"M'name's Ellen, and if you're riding with Dean, you've picked a good one," she says. "Now, why're you boys here?"
"We're Hunting," Dean says. "Heading north but I wanted to check in first."
Ellen looks ready to say something but her eyes flicker, focus on something or someone behind Dean and Sam. Dean turns, lays eyes on a damn good Hunter who, funnily enough, he can't stand.
"North," Gordon Walker says, eyes narrowed. "Hunting a Rogue this close to Deseret you just thought, what, you'd stop in first and make sure one of us isn't helping it?"
"Hey now," Ellen says, holding up one hand. "Dean didn't say anything about that, Gordon. Nothing wrong with stopping in to check on old friends, see how everyone's doing."
Gordon gives Ellen a long glance, finally nods. He's not backing down, though, and it's clear enough to see. "Sorry, Ellen. But some questions have to be asked. It's been too long since Dean's been here and he's been working with Witches since the last time." The Roadhouse has gone utterly silent and an ugly tension fills the atmosphere as Gordon adds, "Word is, one of them Witches was helping a higher Rogue than any of us has ever dealt with."
Dean's so used to the feel of Sam's power that he almost misses the way it starts to coil up, swirl around Dean. Almost, and that's unforgivable, but Sam Casting any power into this situation is guaranteed to make people with itchy trigger fingers start reaching for their guns.
He expects Gordon to notice, expects any and every Hunter in the place to notice, but no one says anything. They're clearly waiting for Dean to refute the implicit accusation but it's so ridiculous that Dean can't think of anything to say.
"Word also is that the Witch is dead," Sam says, quietly. He straightens up, putting every inch of height and pound of muscle to use as he goes on to say, "And it's no fault of Dean's. There's a bad apple in every bunch but they can hide well enough to pass without notice. Usually with a great deal of bluster and redirection."
Gordon bristles at the insinuation and he steps closer. Ellen clears her throat and Dean turns enough to see her lifting a gun from under the counter, one eye still on Gordon. "What are you, then?" Gordon asks Sam. "What's your last name and where do you come from, really?"
Dean's heart skips a beat and then his stomach drops as he sees Sam's power circle around Gordon's throat, hands, stomach, twirling into barbed wire. He opens his mouth but Sam's already answering. "I have a place on the outskirts of the Healer's city. And my last name's just that: mine. Why should I give it to you when I haven't even given it to Dean?"
Dean presses his lips together and glares at Gordon, impressed against his will with Sam's quick retort. "Look, he helped me track an anchor-point and put a name to the traitor Witch's signature. He's one of the good ones."
"According to your judgment," Gordon says softly.
Dean flicks his eyes around the bar, weighs the near-anticipatory tinge of violence in the air against Sam's power, still flooding out of the Witch's body and mixing with the air to fill the Roadhouse like some kind of toxin, one moment away from lethal. He stands, chugs the rest of his beer, and turns away from Gordon, trusting Sam to watch his back. "Thanks, Ellen," he says, digging in his pocket for some coins, setting them on the counter. "Sorry."
She gives Dean a lopsided smile. "You're always welcome here, Dean," she says, the words ringing clear over the bar. "You and your daddy both. You're good men."
Dean nods, gives Sam a look, and they walk out of the Roadhouse, both of them tense and waiting for the opening shot.
--
Two hours northeast of Deseret, Dean finally asks, "Did you know that was going to happen?"
Sam glances over, quick, then looks back out of the front window, same as he's been doing since they left the town. "No," he says. "But it was a given, wasn't it? Triple Cert walks into a bar with a guy no one knows, not long after he was fucked over by a Witch-gone-bad."
Put like that, Dean feels like an idiot, only, "How could they find out about Jake so fast? I mean, it was only the day before we left Nouvelle Orleans, and we drove straight here."
"Bad news travels fast," Sam replies.
Ain't that the truth.
Dean grits his teeth, says, "Sorry." When Sam looks over again, eyebrow raised and clearly waiting, Dean rolls his eyes. "Look, you were right, okay? What do you want, my left arm?"
"I never said it was a bad idea," Sam says.
"Dude," Dean says. "Dude. You didn't have to. Your complete and utter bitchface said it for you."
For a second, Dean thinks that Sam's going to glare and go back to giving Dean the silent treatment, but the Witch's lips twitch. The next second, Sam's laughing, head back, full body shaking.
If Dean cared more about his reputation, he'd scoff and turn the music up louder. As it is, at the sight of Sam's throat stretched out long and smooth, the way the Witch's entire body is given over to laughter, the way Dean feels, he keeps his mouth shut and feasts his eyes.
--
They bed down for the night in the middle of the New Valais Forest, the northwestern-most corner of the Healer's territory, bordering on the Scholar's wards with the Planter's land not far away either. Dean's worried about how Sam will sleep but the Witch merely hums when Dean asks him, taking out packs from the Impala's trunk.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Dean grouses, as Sam's Casting a spark to light the fire carefully contained by stones and Sam's power. "'Mmmm?' I'm sorry, I don't speak that language."
Sam snorts, says, "It means that it won't bother me. No great secret."
Dean looks over his shoulder at the Witch, who's too focused on coaxing the fire to catch to pay Dean any attention. Taking advantage of his chance, Dean straightens up, crosses his arms, stares. Sam's lit by the fire, only slightly at first, features blending into the night, more and more as the fire grows. Sam blows on the kindling, sparks flying up and hissing out against the ward Sam's placed even as Dean can feel the air start to heat.
"There," Sam murmurs, almost too low for Dean to hear. The Witch looks up, eyes immediately locking with Dean's; they stare at each other, frozen, caught on the verge of something that Dean yearns for even as he steps back. Still, he can't tear his eyes away from Sam's, the cant of the Witch's eyes echoing the angles of his cheekbones, the wildly curling hair falling over Sam's ears.
A noise in the forest has the Witch standing up in a fluid motion, power called up and ready to Cast, has Dean whirling around, gun out and aimed. "Hello?" Dean calls out, squinting as he peers into the darkness. "Is anyone there?"
Sam touches him, puts his fingers on Dean's shoulder, a light gesture. Dean looks at the Witch, nods, and Sam Casts out a line of power, steady and slow, sweeping through the trees.
"Just a deer," he murmurs. "You probably scared it away."
Dean nods, puts his gun away. Sam doesn't move back so Dean does, running a hand through his hair, walking over to the fire and putting out his hands as though he's warming them. He doesn't need to; his entire body is strung tense, overheated and aching for something he's too cowardly to name.
"We'll have to cross into the Scholar's territory tomorrow," Dean finally says, when the silence is becoming overwhelming. "Azazel's signature crosses the wards but I won't know where the Rogue's heading until we do as well. Will you be okay?"
Sam circles around Dean, giving the Hunter a wide berth, eventually stopping across the small fire from Dean. "Yeah," he says. "And if you want more than rabbit for dinner, I might be able to snare that deer. We won't have much time to dress it, though."
Dean grins, gives it some serious thought. Eventually he shakes his head. "You're right, we don't have the time. We're getting closer to Azazel; his scent's stronger here than it has been since the anchor-point. It's gonna have to be rabbit. Again."
"Good thing there're three behind you," Sam says, returning Dean's grin with a cocky smile of his own. "So go and Hunt for our dinner."
"Can't you Cast for them?" Dean asks. He already knows what Sam's going to say, so when the Witch opens his mouth, Dean says the words right along with him.
"That'd be cheating."
Sam grins, makes a shooing motion with his hands that, not so coincidentally, makes the flames stretch and dance.
Dean grumbles, "Yeah, yeah," but he still goes and tracks the rabbits, takes the smallest one.
--
They eat well, laugh and joke and ignore the fact that they're getting closer to Azazel with every mile they cover. Dean lays in his sleeping bag, the fire burning and smoking at his side, and doesn't think about the Witch sleeping mere feet from him, warm and long and lean.
Sleep is elusive but the fevered dreams Dean has when he finds himself dozing off, those are enough to jerk him awake every time, dick hard and aching.
With a huff, Dean turns his back to the fire, to Sam, and scrunches his eyes closed, counts sheep until the bird's start singing and Sam sits up, yawning, mumbling, "Time to get up?"
--
They cross the Scholar's territory wards with less trouble than the Healer's; Sam says it has more to do with the reason people travel this far north than security being lax or more lenient. There's no bridge Cast their way, no sign that any other Witch has noticed them entering the territory; Dean keeps waiting but nothing happens.
It puts him on guard, driving him closer and closer to a razor-sharp readiness that all Hunters search for, but only when they're right on the target's heels. Dean's not close enough to Azazel to put this to use and the only person within any kind of distance is Sam; the Witch might be up for a roll in the sack or a tussle, but Dean's sure as hell not going to raise the issue.
Sam eventually asks, "It's more than Azazel, right?" Dean asks what the fuck the Witch is talking about and Sam gestures, says, "What has you so tense right now. It's more than the Rogue." Dean doesn't say anything. "I'm right, I know I am. It's been getting worse ever since we crossed the territory wards. Come on, what's wrong?"
"You can't tell?" Dean snaps. "Here I thought you were a fucking Witch, Sam."
"I don't read minds," Sam says, softly.
Dean slams on the brakes; the Impala squeals as she stops, tyres spinning. He doesn't look over at the Witch, keeps his hands clenched around the steering wheel. "Don't read minds?" he asks. "Don't read minds? Are you saying you can? Fucking hell, Sam, what the fuck are you doing at the Lady's? If you can read minds, you should be with the Singer. Those wards you can Cast, the General or the Builder should've fought over you. And hell, some of the things you said before, the way you knew what would happen in Deseret, maybe you should've gone to the Dreamer."
"I'm one of the Lady's," Sam says. His tone is firm but not argumentative; still, Dean bristles.
"How can you know?" Dean asks, voice turning needle-sharp. "You haven't taken anyone back to your bedroom. There's no way anyone could know you're one of the Lady's, not when you haven't even fucked anyone."
Sam's jaw clenches. "Casting strengths are hereditary," he says.
Dean blinks. He opens his mouth, closes it again, shakes his head. "I'm sorry," he says. "But I could've sworn you just. Your mother was a Witch? One of the Lady's Witches?"
Sam snorts, looks down at his lap, the hands folded together tightly. "My mother is the Lady."
"No," Dean says. It takes a minute for what Sam's said to process, mind recalling every interaction Dean witnessed between the Lady and Sam: the way Sam was kneeling at her feet, hugging her legs, when Dean first met them both, the way she held out her hand and Sam brushed past him to take it, the way Sam asked permission to leave and she granted it. Sam's mannerisms, they aren't the way a Witch brought up from a young age in a compound would act. They're the actions of a Witch raised since birth by another Witch.
Dean does the math, finally says, "She was already the Lady when she had you. She'd held Nouvelle Orleans for, what, nine years?"
"Eight," Sam says. He won't look at Dean, keeps looking down. The Witch has all the same expressions as a kicked puppy and Dean can't help the sigh. Sam tenses, shoulders hunching closer, and he asks, "Will you send me back?"
Dean honestly thinks about it. It's one thing to know he has the Lady's heir riding shotgun, is quite another to know that the Witch next to him, the one that makes his blood sing, the one he trusts at his side, is the Lady's blood heir. There's a whole level of power there that Dean can't comprehend.
"How far back can you trace your Casting ancestry?" Dean asks. "The Lady gave you my lineage the first time we met. A Winchester."
"Was in the king's company at the first Battle of London," Sam says, cutting Dean off. "And my ancestor was one of the Witches brought over from the continent the next month."
Dean swallows. Hunters don't inherit the talents of their parents, Hunters or not; something about the genetic code of a Hunter won't allow it and there's never a guarantee that the son or daughter of a Hunter will, in turn, be a Hunter. That the Winchesters have been, ever since the beginning, since the Rogues unleashed or Cast whatever it was that separated Hunters, Witches, and humans, it's been a miracle. The fact that every Winchester Hunter has been so good, so talented, has only added to their near-legendary status.
Witches are different, always have been. Every Witch child of a Witch possesses their own power but builds on the strength and gifts of their parent. For Sam to be able to trace his ancestry back to the beginning explains the power of his Casting signature. With the inheritance Sam has running in his blood, there's no doubt in Dean's mind that he knows exactly what his talents are and how to use them even if he hasn't yet. The thought turns Dean's mouth dry, mind cycling through everything Sam might know, might be able to do, might want to do.
"The dagger," Dean says. "You brought it out of your bedroom before we left. You tied it to your leg and you've never taken it off. It's a family heirloom?"
Sam nods but doesn't otherwise speak. His body language is practically screaming wariness, and Dean could kick himself. He knows better than to act like this.
"No Witch said anything," Dean finally says. At Sam's puzzled look, Dean puts the Impala in gear, straightens her out, and starts driving in pursuit of Azazel again. "You asked what made me jittery. You didn't respond to the Scholar's territory wards and we weren't contacted by a Witch. That can't be right."
Sam eyes Dean for a long moment. Dean can see the exact second that the tension starts leaking out of Sam's muscles, taking the peace offering for what it is and not pressing Dean for a full-out apology. Dean appreciates that; it makes him think better of the Witch.
"Witches come in and out of the Scholar's territory all the time," Sam says. "If a new Witch is born, they come here until they display some sign of a potential talent and most Witches will come to the Scholar's compound at least once during their life to study. To ward the boundaries as tightly as the Healer doesn't make sense. The Healer needs to know who's coming in and from what direction in order to be prepared for any Casting he or his Witches might need to perform. Also, the Healer's territory is central to the country and he likes to have an idea of who might be crossing through. If the Scholar warded as securely, he would need a legion of Witches to keep track of boundary disturbances. He doesn't have enough oath-bound Witches to do that."
"Makes sense," Dean says, thoughtfully. He's always felt the wards between the territories, any Hunter would, but rarely thought about the reasons for the difference in potency. "Have you ever been to the Scholar's compound?"
Sam grins, tucks one errant curl of hair behind his ear. "I was nine," he says. "I was meant to stay up there for a summer. The Scholar sent me home to the Lady five weeks early, washed his hands of me and told me never to come back."
Dean laughs, imagining a young Sam running wild through the streets of the Gemini Cities, smudging priceless grimoires and inciting revolt among the staid, bookworm Witches that the Scholar's sworn followers tend to personify.
"You call her the Lady," he eventually says, once he's stopped laughing. "Not your mother. There a reason for that?"
Sam gazes out of the window; when Dean looks over, he sees the Witch staring ahead without seeing anything, deep in thought, perhaps even lost somewhere in his memories. Dean wishes he could follow Sam, hates that he can't. "There are things I imagine a mother would do, ways she would act. The Lady never has. I'm her heir; there's no reason I have to be her son as well."
Dean can't imagine what that would be like. He assumed, at first, that Sam was an orphan, sent to the Lady when his talents developed and it was clear which overtone his Castings would take. Knowing that he has a mother but that she's never treated him like a son, that's almost worse. Dean's father wasn't overly affectionate but Dean knew that he was loved, that even if he hadn't been a Hunter, his father wouldn't have abandoned him to someone else.
"I'm sorry," he says, having rooted around for something -- anything -- else to say other than a trite, overused apology.
The Witch shrugs, picks at something under a fingernail. "Like I said, I'm her heir. I have her in ways other people never will, even her favourites."
Dean wants to say more but even he can tell when someone's said enough. Sam left him alone earlier, there's no reason he can't return the favour now. "Not much longer before we catch up with the Rogue. Azazel's on foot, I think. Few hours, tonight at the latest."
Sam nods.
Music's playing, volume low; other than that, other than the noises the Impala makes every so often, it's quiet. With Sam at his side, the quiet, the calm, isn't oppressive, not the way it used to be when it was him in the passenger seat, his father driving.
Dean likes it. He thinks, maybe, he likes it too much.
--
They start stopping every thirty minutes. Dean can track a Rogue from inside a moving car but Azazel's a tricky son of a bitch and they're to the point now where a turn caught too late might set them back hours again; a missed anchor-point connection could prolong this Hunt for weeks. So, to make sure that doesn't happen, he pulls over and Shields Sam, waits for the Witch to Cast a dispelling ward, and then sends out his senses to track the Rogue.
The two don't speak, doing this, just settle into a routine that becomes habit by the third time Dean parks the Impala and gets out, standing on the side of the road. He doesn't think twice about forming a Shield to keep the Witch safe and hidden from the Rogue, hardly notices the feel of Sam's ward sweeping out from their position in an ever-widening circle. Dean knows he should probably be worried at how normal this has all become, at how much he likes it, but he can't bring himself to care, not when he can feel them closing the distance to Azazel one mile at a time.
The eighth time they stop, only fifteen minutes since the last, Dean closes his eyes and breathes in deep, gripping the anchor-point from the Lady's territory tightly in one hand. "We're close," he says, the words floating out of his mouth on the edge of an exhale. "I don't think Azazel is moving anymore. He must be holed up somewhere." Sam nods, is quiet. Dean looks over, can tell the Witch is debating saying something. "What?" Dean asks.
"I should warn the Scholar," Sam replies. "In case I have to use the chalk."
"In case you need a ritual to dispel Azazel," Dean says, understanding exactly what Sam's saying. "If he's as strong as they say he is, you think you'll need to perform a Major Casting?"
Sam shrugs, finally looks at Dean. His pupils are tiny, pinpricks of black, as if he's been staring into the sun. "I don't know but it's better to be safe than sorry."
Dean hums, chews on his bottom lip for a few seconds as he thinks. "Can you do it without Casting a bridge? Azazel might be able to feel that and he'll run if he thinks there's a Witch close to him. I can Shield you but there's no way I can Shield a bridge to the Gemini Cities."
With a grin, Sam drops to one knee, places his palm on the ground and closes his eyes. Sam's nostrils flare as he inhales deep, holds the breath for five seconds, then lets it out through his lips. "I can Cast a message without needing a bridge," he says. "The ground here will work just fine."
Making a gesture meant to say 'get on with it, then,' Dean leans against the Impala, spreading out the Shield he has over the pair of them to cover a larger section of land, doming it around them. He watches as Sam takes a piece of chalk from the ties holding it to one wrist and draws something on the ground, the intensity of Sam's Casting power jumping several degrees as the Witch funnels it towards a specific purpose.
Sam leans down, blows over the chalk drawing, then spits on top of the drawing, chalk and saliva mixing. Dean straightens up, suddenly worried, because saliva, that's close to a Major Casting and his Shields are good but they aren't good enough to contain one of those.
The Witch places his hands to either side of the drawing, bending down and whispering into the ground. Dean's Shield buckles and he fights to hold it, getting a split-second glimpse of the power that rides the edge of a Major Casting. Stunned, the momentary distraction is enough to set cracks in his Shield; Dean grits his teeth and fights but he knows he's going to lose control.
Just on the brink of the Shield falling apart and giving their position away, something props it up, weaves in and around it, strengthening it. Dean pants, feels pressure riding his shoulders like gravity pushing him down, but he's a Winchester and so he fights, letting what feels like a second Shield help him, whip around and fill in the cracks around them as Dean holds the shape.
Dean's so focused on figuring out what the hell that second Shield is and where it came from that he staggers when Sam swipes his hand through the chalk, breaking the Casting. The pressure he's been holding off suddenly leaves and he feels like he can breathe again, but the sense of that second Shield, alien and yet uncomfortably familiar, disappears as well.
Dean wants to kill. For the few moments it was present, that Shield merged with Dean's, a connection deeper than friendship, deeper than blood. He wants the person who made it to stand in front of him, he wants to punch the Hunter then fuck the living daylights out of whoever it was, male or female doesn't matter, nothing matters except finding the thrice-damned Hunter.
"Hey," Sam says, reaching out. Dean sways back, out of arm's length, and skitters away. He can feel madness clawing at him, a solitude and loneliness so painful it will kill him if it lasts any longer. He calls up every ounce of skill he has, scents the air for a track he can Hunt, bites his tongue and spits blood on the ground, can't focus, can't seem to breathe, screams and sends himself spiralling out of his body, and he, he --
A Witch's power circles Dean, holds him tight. With a reaction born more from Dean's instincts than any conscious thought, he gives in, lets the signature wrap around him and calm him until he can think again. The signature is powerful but the power isn't warped, isn't trying to burrow inside of him or leave him open to attack; it twirls green and gold, and the sheer depth it possesses gives Dean time to claw back to sanity.
Dean opens his eyes to see Sam standing right in front of him, eyes worried, a few specks of blood splattered on his face.
"Another Hunter," Dean rasps. His eyes are locked with Sam's. "Another Hunter buoyed up my Shield. Did you see anyone?"
Sam is still, every bit of him, even his hair which should be blowing in the wind Dean can feel. "You Cast a Major Ritual," Sam says. His voice is even, without inflection. "You used your own blood and you Cast yourself on the wind."
Dean flinches. He tries to step backwards but the look in his Sam's eyes compels him to remain where he is. "You're imagining things," Dean says, adding a laugh in to give credence to his words. His blood's gone cold, sluggish, and he wonders if this is what it feels like to be caught in a lie that's enveloped an entire life. Sam will kill him. No matter what they share, what might be, whatever the Lady thinks, Sam will have to kill him by the laws they both follow.
An Alliance between Hunters and Witches will never last in the face of a person who is both at the same time.
Dean stares at Sam, studies the Witch. Sam held him back, gave him time to find his mind and get settled. Sam spread his power out and cradled Dean in it, a gesture of trust so profound and so rare that any other Hunter would laugh and call bullshit if Dean told them.
"I've never had training," Dean finally says, giving breath to a secret he's kept his entire life. "I don't know how to be a Witch. All I know how to do is Hunt."
Sam studies him, looks deeper into Dean than anyone else has, ever. "That's how you killed Alistair. As a Hunter-Witch hybrid, you could Hunt, Shield, and Cast." He pauses, snorts, says, "A real Triple Cert."
Dean doesn't argue. He waits, instead. His eyes never leave Sam's.
The Witch finally breathes out; they are standing so close to each other that Dean can feel the puff of air against his own skin. "This is one of those things we said we'd talk about after the Hunt," Sam says. "That you're both. That I am as well."
Dean can only stare. "You're. You. What?"
"I can Shield my signature, how powerful it is," Sam says, "and I can sense signatures. I can track them. But I can't Shield myself entirely and I can't Shield anyone else. I can't Hunt. I've never had training how to be a Hunter. I'm a Witch. I can just, I can just do a few extra things, too."
There's no way this is happening. There's no way Sam, out of everyone on the planet, could be like Dean; the odds of someone else being a hybrid, as Sam called it, are astronomical. The odds that it's someone Dean likes, gets along with, wants to see how well he can get along with, they have to be impossible.
"It was you, wasn't it," he says, mind reeling, unable to process anything else. "The second Shield. No one else was. The Hunter who helped Cast the wards for Nouvelle Orleans. It was you."
Sam nods. "It was me."
Dean stares, drinks in the sight of Sam's face, then lurches forward, fisting his hands in Sam's shirt. He tugs the Witch closer, pulls Sam off-balance then bites his way into Sam's mouth, tongue sweeping a moment later to take out the sting. Sam doesn't resist but he doesn't join in either; the fury rising in Dean's veins has him stepping back, wiping off his mouth with the back of his hand, glaring at the Witch.
"You want it," he snarls. "You want me, I know you do."
The Witch regards him carefully; the sight of his flushed cheeks, wrinkled shirt soothes something deep inside of Dean. Dean has always been a predator, and the people he's slept with, they're all, to that animal part of his brain, little better than prey to be taken in the Hunt. Sam, though. Sam's a predator as well. Dean's brain supplies the word 'equal,' and he bares his teeth, wanting to see Sam fighting, taking, claiming, just as much as Dean plans on doing.
"Azazel is close," Sam says. "In fact, I think he's coming to us."
That does a lot to get Dean focused in a hurry.
--
They agree that the Rogue is heading their way; Dean scents Azazel and the Rogue's track is doubling back towards them; Sam sends out a whipline of power along the ground that brings back Azazel's unique signature.
"Our conversation isn't over," Dean says.
"When this is done," Sam says, so mildly that Dean doesn't realise at first that the Witch is arguing, "it won't be a conversation."
Dean grins, can feel himself approaching a Hunter's edge of awareness again. This time, he doesn't fight it. The Rogue is coming and he has an equal at his side, someone who's already proved he has Dean's back in a fight but won't hesitate to stand up to him when it's only the two of them.
With a rare and supreme lack of care, Dean opens his Shield and waits for the Rogue to arrive.
--
Azazel comes on foot, taking shape as he walks towards them with a cocky jaunt to his stride. He's close, closer than Dean feels strictly comfortable with, by the time he finally stops moving, head cocked as his yellow eyes glance between Dean and Sam.
"Thought I'd say hello," he says. The Rogue's voice grates Dean's nerves, slides down Dean's awareness like a city full of Witches. "See how you boys were doing. Check in on you, you know how it goes."
"Can't say I do," Sam replies, beating Dean to the response. "I've never met one of you before. Now that I have, I wish I hadn't." Sam grins and Dean can feel Sam shift, just a minute resettling of his weight. That means he's ready for the wave of power that Sam unleashes in Azazel's direction.
In the same instant that Sam calls his power and sends it outwards, Dean sets a Shield around the Rogue, uses what little Casting ability he has to reinforce it with wards. Azazel shouldn't be able to get out before Sam's Casting hits him.
They watch, wait for the wave of power to simmer down and see what's left standing. When the power clears, green and gold motes of light fading into the air, dust falling back to the ground, Dean can't believe his eyes. Azazel's still standing there, looks completely unaffected. Dean's eyes narrow.
"Gonna have to do better than that, boys," the Rogue says, pretending to check his nails. He looks up, grinning, and pretends to shiver. "Tickled a little."
Dean glances at Sam, sees the Witch's cheeks pale even as Sam's hands tighten into fists. "Why did you come back?" Sam asks.
Azazel's teeth gleam in the sun as a corona of black appears around the Rogue. Dean instantly recognises the colour from the anchor-point, the signatures Sam pulled out of the stone. "Why, I just had to meet you," he says. "John Winchester's progeny, the blood of the Lady. A Triple-Cert Master Hunter and the Dreamer's favourite Witchling. You're going to be quite the pair, boys, and I'll be able to say I saw you before you made it big."
Sam twitches. Dean's not sure why but then Sam bursts into action, one hand drawing a knife in the same instant the other slips a piece of chalk free, dropping to his knees and spitting out something in a language Dean doesn't recognise. Azazel laughs even as Sam's slicing over his palm, rubbing the chalk with blood before tracing out a line of symbols on the ground.
"You can try all you want, little Sammy," the Rogue says, half on his way to cackling. "Nothing's gonna work against me."
Power breaks apart and hell breaks open.
The ground shakes, trembling hard enough to shake apart. The air fills with rainbows of colour as Sam's normal Casting signature takes on hues of rose, yellow, even a pale blue. Azazel's laugh turns deadly as black power emerges from his mouth, clashing with Sam's power and filling the sky with violet lightning.
Dean's senses are going haywire, all of his abilities telling him to get the hell out of the way before one of those lightning strikes gets too close for comfort. His instincts, though, those he listens to. Barely knowing what he's doing, he weaves his power in with Sam's Major Casting, loans Sam all of the power he has at his command.
The ground splits under his feet, a long, jagged crack running to Azazel and stopping, pounding away at a Shield or ward the Rogue has up. Dean can feel the hammering like his heart skipping beats. The feel of a Witch nearby and the power Azazel's releasing are rioting in his head until he can't think, can't do any more than feed more and more of himself to Sam.
Dean isn't sure how long it lasts but Sam's pushing Azazel's power back inch by agonising inch. As if the Rogue can see that they're winning, Azazel snarls out, "Tell your parents I said hello, Winchesters."
The Rogue disappears in a clash of thunder, and the air clears in time for Dean to scream in fury and frustration.
--
"I should have tracked down the fucking anchor-point," Dean says, later that night while they're lying next to a fire, back in the Healer's territory. He's said it over and over again since Azazel gave them the slip, can't focus on anything else. He let Azazel go. If only he'd been paying attention, the Rogue might be dead already.
Sam told him it wasn't his fault after Dean took on the blame of failure, gave up trying to convince Dean and hasn't said a word since. He does now, twisting in his sleeping bag, peering at Dean through his bangs and across the fire.
"You should have tracked the anchor-point and I should have gone straight to a pas de la diablerie, not bothered with one knife, fine," Sam says. "But I think we have bigger issues."
Dean gives Sam a look of complete and utter shock. "Bigger things to worry about?" he repeats, incredulous. "What, are you out of your fucking mind? I just made a rookie mistake out there and it cost us. It cost us big, Sam."
"Azazel called us Winchesters," Sam replies. "Plural."
"I don't," Dean starts to say, stops and thinks back. When he finds the memory, he freezes, eyes going wide as he misses one breath, then two. "He did."
Sam nods, repositions himself and goes back to staring at the sky. "It would make sense. Hunter-Witch hybrids, and your signature has overtones that read like one of the Lady's Witches. Besides, your father was in Nouvelle Orleans around the right times. The first to impregnate the Lady, the second to pick you up, the third to sire me. The fourth, that one I don't know, unless he came back to make sure I wasn't a Hunter."
"Nothing Azazel could hope to touch," Dean whispers. "Nothing Azazel could take from the Lady. Sam, do you really think?"
He trails off into nothing. They'd be brothers, then. Both of them freaks, both of them equals, bound by blood as well as sex -- when they eventually get to have it. Dean stops there, holds his breath as he asks, "Do you still. I mean, will you want."
Sam looks at him, eyes glinting in the light of the fire, smile curving his lips. "When this is over," he says, "it won't be a conversation."
Dean returns the grin. "Get some sleep, then," he says. "We have a Rogue to catch."