Blood of the Bayou 3/5
AUTHOR:Scullspeare
SUMMARY: Casefic. The tables are turned on Sam and Dean - this time they're the hunted, and it's a new enemy who wants them.
SPOILERS: Set late in Season 7. References to canon incidents through Season 6, and some oblique references to a couple of Season 7 incidents but no plot spoilers for anything in Season 7. This is a casefic which takes place in-between canon hunts.
DISCLAIMER: The characters of Supernatural belong to Eric Kripke & Co. I am playing in their sandbox, with their toys, with much gratitude.
RATING: PG-13 for swearing, including the 'big boy' words, as Jensen once called them, adult situations, and violence.
WORD COUNT: 10K
GENRE: Gen/Hurt-Comfort
A/N: I've done research for the medical and Voodoo aspects of this story, but am certainly no expert in either. For the medical info, please forgive any inaccuracies. For the Voodoo, I have done what Supernatural itself does - take factual elements and present them in a fictional way, mixing together lore from New Orleans, Haiti and West Africa.
Written for JaniceC678 and LittleLady, based on a plot bunny they came up with, and gave me to play with. The full prompt will appear at the end of the story so as not to spoil things. This is a five-chapter fic; all chapters are complete and all have been beta-ed by the always awesome Harrigan. I tinkered post-beta, so any remaining goofs are mine and mine alone. I will post a new chapter every other day until we're done, so you won't be left hanging on any cliffs ahead for too, too long. *g* I hope this helps fill the time until we get new onscreen adventures with the Winchester brothers this fall. Enjoy.
Link back to Chapter 2 Here.
BLOOD OF THE BAYOU - Chapter Three
"How you holding up?"
"We get Sam back, I'll be fine. But at least now I've got something we can work with." Dean sat on the motel bed and flipped his phone to speaker before jamming his flash drive into the laptop. The computer quickly uploaded the images he'd taken from the gas station security camera footage. "It took three gas stations to find it but I have a dirty black pick-up with a flag bumper sticker, gold star and everything. Got a shot of the driver, too. It's not great, but if you know him you should be able to recognize him."
"Good."
"There." Dean hit send. "Pics are on their way to your phone. Anything on Parise?"
"She ain't been in New York for some time, although she was often seen in the company of black mambo when she lived there. We're still trying to track where she went." Jack sounded worried. "And there's more bad news. Whatever Ti-Jean's got planned, it's going down tomorrow night."
"Tomorrow?" Dean stared at the phone, his fingers frozen over the keyboard. That gave them less than a day to find Sam.
"You heard of the Blood Moon?"
"Yeah, it's the hunter's moon, first full moon of the fall equinox." Dean frowned. "It's big in Native American lore, but what does it mean in Bo?"
"It's said to be a time when the forces of nature are in perfect alignment. Whatever spells are performed beneath it are amplified. If Ti-Jean's conjuring for power, for example-"
"He gets an atom bomb instead of a firecracker." Dean's heart started racing. "But how the hell does Sam tie into this?"
"That's what we have to figure out. OK, your photos just landed. The one of the truck - that star on the bumper is the flag of Acadiana, the Cajun flag, and that's bayou mud spattered all over it. Every truck that comes out of the swamp looks like that. As for the driver…." Jack clicked open the second photo. "I'd say that's Charlie Maillet, especially since the son of a bitch lives out on the bayou and drives a black Ford F-150. He's a hunter but sketchy on his best days - and he's been known to cozy up to Ti-Jean. Lately, he's been partnered up with a hunter from the Midwest…. Wandell, that's it."
"Wandell." Bile rose in Dean's throat.
"I take it you know the name?"
"Yeah. Long story, but let's just say the bastard has grudge against Sam."
"So if Wandell met up with Ti-Jean and the two of them got to talking…."
"The bokor would know everything the hunters' grapevine knows about Sam." Dean's jaw clenched; that was way more than he was comfortable with anyone knowing, let alone a bokor. "Where do I find 'em? And don't give me that wait 'til we're ready bullshit. Hunters I can handle and you said it yourself, we're on a deadline."
Jack exhaled slowly. "Yeah. Let me put out some feelers. If they're still in town, we'll be able to track 'em down."
"Good. You can-" Dean's phone beeped, signaling another call. Dean picked it up and frowned at the unfamiliar number. "Got another call. I'll get back to you."
"Keep me in the loop."
Dean clicked to the other call. "Yeah?"
A woman's voice came over the line. "I have a collect call from a Sam Smith. Will you ac-"
"Put it through." Dean's heart was suddenly punching his ribs. "Sammy?"
"Yeah, Dean. It's me."
Dean couldn't get the words out fast enough. "Y'okay? Where the hell are you? You got away, right?"
"One question at a time, dude." Sam sounded tired. "One, I'll live. Two, a truck stop - best guess, it's seventy, eighty miles west of New Orleans. And three, yeah - I stole some wheels, been driving for thirty, forty minutes already just to get out of the swamp."
Dean scowled. "The swamp?"
"Yeah. They kept me in some camp out on the bayou. This is the first phone I passed since I got outta there, not to mention the first sign of civilization."
Dean sank back against the headboard. "Damn, it's good to hear your voice.…" His tone hardened. "It was Wandell's brother, wasn't it - the hunter who took you?"
"Yeah, but this wasn't his gig. Wandell's dead."
"What? You killed him?"
"No. He handed me over to a bokor named Ti-Jean. The bokor took him out with some black magic hoodoo. That's what's behind this, Dean. There's some big Bo ceremony going down and-"
"I know. I-" Dean scowled at a hiss from the other end of the phone. "I thought you said you were OK?"
"I am."
"Bull. What'd they do to you?"
"I…." Sam bit back a groan. "I got winged by a bullet getting away. It's no big deal. Once I get it out, I-"
"Son of a bitch…." Dean launched himself off the bed and grabbed his keys from the dresser. "Tell me where you are - I'm coming to get you."
"Dean, no. I told you - I'm OK. I've got wheels, I-"
"Since when does kidnapped and shot equal OK? And what? I'm just supposed to sit here and let you drive yourself home with a bullet in you?"
"Yes. Look, it'll take twice as long for me to get back if I have to wait for you to pick me up, and we both know I'm safer on the move. They're gonna come after me." Sam sounded equal parts frustrated by and grateful for Dean's overprotective streak. "But there's a few things you need to know that can't wait. Most important - they're after you, too."
"Me?" Dean's knuckles whitened around his keys, but he snorted dismissively. "I'll add their names to the list."
"Quit screwing around. The woman from the bar, the one you left with, she's mixed up in this, and pretty high up the food chain. I think she's the mambo. The blonde who was hitting on me, Carrie, she's also involved - a hounsis, maybe."
"Yeah. That much I know. I've been talking to Jack Delacroix. We can connect the dots between both women and the bokor, and right now this Ti-Jean in the middle of some Voodoo turf war. Someone's after his job only he doesn't know who. My guess is it's his very own mambo."
That surprised Sam. "The woman you were with last night?"
Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. "Let's move past that, shall we? Tomorrow night's the Blood Moon and, according to Jack, any spell you cast under it gets a turbo-boost. Obviously, Ti-Jean's looking for some new powers to tip the odds in his favor, but what we don't know is why they need you to do it."
"Not me, Dean. Us. I told you, they're coming after you, too."
Dean shook his head. "That doesn't make sense. I was with Parise. She had me." He rolled his eyes. "In every sense of the word. If they wanted me, why'd she let me go? I'm guessing she just kept me out of the way so they could get to you."
"No, you're definitely a part of this. One, the mambo - Parise? - told her men to stay away from you until she figured out a way to break the protection of our tattoos and two, if she's the rival, she's not gonna give the bokor all the tools he needs to secure his power. Maybe she's delaying until she can figure out a way to beat him at his own game."
Dean frowned, subconsciously running his fingers down his sternum. "What was that about our tattoos?"
"She said she needed time to find a spell to break their protection. Dude, they only protect us from one thing...."
"Possession. Son of a bitch…." Dean's stomach lurched when he thought back to Parise's fascination with his tattoo. "Demons aren't the only ones who can take over your meatsuit."
"No, loas can, too." Sam sounded sick. "But why us? How does that get this bokor more power?"
Dean's mind was spinning, trying to figure out just that. "We know Ti-Jean was working with Wandell, and Wandell would be hooked into the hunter grapevine, so he'd know about the demon blood, your history with Lucifer - some of it, anyway. Maybe Ti-Jean thinks you still have Luci on speed dial and the two of them can swap dark secrets. But that doesn't explain why they want me."
"You've been to Hell, you're Michael's vessel-"
"Michael never rode this train."
"Wandell wouldn't know that." Sam hissed again, obviously still in pain. "And Voodoo-"
"OK, screw this discussion for now." Dean hated the helpless feeling that came with being eighty miles from his injured brother. "You need to get your ass back here. Once I see for myself just how OK you really are, then we'll figure out our next move."
"You can't stay there, Dean. You said Parise came by the motel. I got away - if they can't find me, they're gonna focus on you."
Sam was right. Dean moved over to the window, suspiciously scanning the parking lot. "You on a payphone?"
"Yeah."
"Then steal yourself a cell and check in every 15 minutes on the drive back - and I mean every 15 minutes. I'll slip out of here, shake loose any tail, then get us some new digs where we can regroup." He frowned when there was no answer. "Sammy?"
"You slept with her."
Dean raised an eyebrow. "You pick now to go all judgmental."
"Dean, we're dealing with black magic. You know as well as I do, the best way to mark someone, to control them, is get hold of hair, skin... bodily fluids. You used protection, right? So-"
"Dude, stop!" Dean felt like he was going to puke. "You are seriously squicking me out."
Suddenly the roles were reversed and Sam was worrying about Dean. "Before you take off, take a shower. Beyond the… obvious, she may have touched you with some powder, some oil that-"
"Yeah, yeah…. I know the drill."
"Does she have anything else of yours? Something she might have taken, something you left behind that could be used to track you or curse you?"
"Beyond… you know, I left some clothes there but…." Dean's frown returned as he glanced down at the small carrier bag on the chair by the door. "She brought them back. Why would she give 'em up if she wanted to curse me? Shit…." He grabbed the bag, pulled out his freshly laundered socks and underwear and stuck his hand inside each, expecting to find a gris-gris - the Voodoo equivalent of a hex bag - but there was nothing. "No, they're clean - at least as far as I can tell."
"Don't take any chances, burn 'em. Hell, burn everything you were wearing when you were with her, everything she touched."
"Dude, come on - everything she touched? We had sex."
"Then get your ass and everything attached to it into the shower, scrub your skin raw. Call Jack again. He'll know the best kind of gris-gris to ward off any hex she tries to throw at you. Oh, fuck…."
Dean scowled at the phone. "I'm not gonna like this, am I?"
"When I came to, my shirt was gone - my blood's on it."
Which meant they had the means to curse Sam, too. "Oh, fuck is right." The muscle along Dean's jaw twitched. "Before this gig is over, I better be able to kill something or I am gonna lose it." He scrubbed a hand through his hair. "OK, get a phone, change up rides, then call me. I'm not going anywhere 'til I know you're traveling with Ma Bell. Then get your oversized self back to town double-time. And don't forget the check-ins."
"Yes, Dad."
"Asshat." Dean again scanned the parking lot. "Now go swipe a phone… and keep your eyes peeled."
"You, too - and take a shower."
When Sam hung up, Dean tossed the phone on the bed, headed for the bathroom and stripped off his clothes. The water was still warming up when he stepped under the spray and grabbed the tiny motel soap. "You'd think you would have learned your lesson with Lydia, but no…. It's just a one night stand, you've got protection, everything's good," he sing-songed as he began to scrub, his skin quickly turning pink under the assault. "What a crock of shit. Maybe Sammy's onto something with this monk thing."
He shuddered at that thought.
Sammy.
Talking to his brother had eased some of the pressure in his chest that had been building since Sam disappeared, but it wouldn't go away completely until Sam walked through the door and he saw for himself what kind of shape the kid was in. Sam had learned a lot about hunting from Dean and, unfortunately, downplaying injuries was one of them.
Dean ran the soap over his tattoo, subconsciously scrubbing even harder at the thought of Parise touching it, touching him. Possession. So far he'd escaped that particular torture and he had every damn intention of keeping that record intact.
But how would possessing him and Sam boost the bokor's power?
Sam had the Lucifer connection and they'd both been to Hell. Dean froze, arm braced against the shower wall, oblivious to the rapidly cooling water. They'd also both died. Under the letter of Voodoo law, that made them zombies.
Sam had lived without a soul for more than a year, and Dean had been worm food for more than four months. Dean scrubbed the water from his face; Cas had reassembled him and Death had tucked Sam's soul back inside that ridiculous six-pack but, by Voodoo definition, they were still the living dead. Rightful ownership of theirs souls reverted back to the gods, the 'loa,' the moment they were separated from the body.
Souls were power, pure energy. Had the bokor found a way to use that loophole to claim their souls as a weapon in his battle to hold on to power?
"Son of a bitch." Dean slammed his fist into the shower wall, the tile cracking under the assault, the water running down it turning pink as a shard of broken porcelain sliced into his knuckles. Wandell wouldn't know all the details of their multiple deaths and resurrections, but enough were common hunter knowledge for Wandell to be able to share them with the bokor.
Dean shivered, and not just because it suddenly registered that the water was icy cold. He shut off the tap, threw back the curtain and stepped out of the tub. He'd just wrapped one threadbare towel around his hips and was scrubbing his face and hair dry with another when his phone rang. "Sammy? You back on the road?"
"Sorry, Dean, it's just me." It was Jack's voice. "Wait - you heard from Sam?"
"Yeah, he got away. He's on his way back, but…." Dean threw the wet towel into the tub and scowled down at his bloody knuckles, the urge to punch something back in full force. "The bastards shot him, Jack."
"What? Is he-"
"He says he's OK." Dean moved back into the room, pulling fresh clothes from his duffel. "But I won't know what OK means 'til I see him."
"Where is he?"
"Out in the bayou west of the city. He's hurting and still needs to find fresh wheels, so I'd say he's at least a couple of hours out." Dean swapped the phone to his other hand as he pulled his T-shirt over his head. "But he saw preparations for Ti-Jean's shindig at the camp where they held him. Once he's back, we give him a map, he'll be able to point it out for us. Oh, and Wandell's dead. Ti-Jean killed him."
"That fits." Jack didn't seemed surprised by that last piece of news. "I checked in with some police sources. A body, or at least most of it, showed up in a fisherman's net this morning out in that same part of the state. Got me a look at the police photos. It was a little hard to tell, but my money says it's Wandell."
Dean had no sympathy to waste on the man who'd kidnapped Sam and handed him over to a Bo sorcerer. "The missing pieces, did the bokor do that?"
"Nah, more like gators after they tossed him in the water. So what's the plan now?"
Dean trusted Jack, but he didn't want to share his theory on Ti-Jean being after their souls just yet; he'd bounce it off Sam first. "Once I know Sam's got a phone and a fresh ride, I'm heading out to find us some new digs, ones Parise doesn't know about."
"I know a place, well off the beaten path. You leave it with me, I'll set it up. Just get yourself the hell out of there and I'll text you a rendezvous point."
"Sounds good." Dean glanced down at the bag Parise had returned. "And while you're at it, I need a few things you can't get at the Gas 'n' Sip."
xxxXXXxxx
Sam slipped through the unlocked back door of the truck stop. It led into a short hallway with restrooms on one side and a staff locker room on the other. Zydeco music and the usual restaurant noises filtered in from the front of the building but, for the moment, the hallway itself was deserted.
He ducked into the men's room, locked the door and fell back against it, catching his breath. A quick glance at the cracked mirror above the sink confirmed what he already knew; he was a mess. Dirt mixed with sweat was smeared across day-old stubble, there was dried blood on his forehead and a black eye from where he'd smacked his head on the fire alarm back at the motel. His hair? Well, Dean would have a field day when he saw it. Add to that the shirt that didn't fasten, the blood-soaked sleeve from the bullet wound, and bloody, filthy bare feet and anyone who saw him would be calling the cops before he had a chance to say, 'Wait-'
He hobbled to the sink, turned on the tap and ignored the burn in his injured arm as he scrubbed away dirt, blood and sweat from his face. He raked wet hands through his hair, taming it as best he could, then stuck his mouth under the faucet and drank greedily. Screw the bitter, metallic taste; it was the best damn water he'd ever had.
Sam then turned his attention to his arm and his feet. He left the tap running as he pulled off his shirt, wincing as fabric stuck in dried blood pulled at the skin around the bullet wound. He almost passed out poking at the injury, white knuckling the edge of the sink until the pain-fueled dizziness passed, and nearly putting his teeth through his bottom lip biting back a yell. There was no exit wound but he couldn't see the bullet, the swelling skin around the entry point swallowing it whole. Moving his arm hurt like hell, but he could move it, meaning bone damage was unlikely. His immediate dilemma was whether to leave the bullet in place and risk infection, or try to pull it out and risk bleeding out. He chose the former; infection was the slower of the two enemies. He would be back in the city before it fully took hold, and then Dean would take care of it, take care of him. If he bled out, he'd die in a ditch before he even got close to the city.
He used soap from the wall dispenser to scrub his arm and his battered feet, again almost biting through his lip as he did so. As far as first aid was concerned, it was a long way from ideal but, hey, you worked with what you had.
Sam dried his feet, then put his shirt back on, rolling up the sleeves in an attempt to hide both the bullet wound and the blood stain on the fabric. While drying his hands, he glanced again in the mirror. Who the hell was he trying to kid? He'd dropped a notch on the feeling-like-crap scale but anyone who caught sight of him would still be calling 9-1-1 - for the paramedics if he was lucky, the cops if he wasn't.
Decision made to stay out of sight, his focus shifted to finding a phone. Since picking the pocket of a customer was out, his next best option was the staff locker room across the hall. Sam leaned against the door and listened; assured the hallway was still empty, he quickly moved from the bathroom to the locker room, and slipped inside. Luck was still with him - the room was empty.
It was small, holding only three lockers, each of which was just latched shut. Sam riffled through the contents; all three were in use by female employees so none offered him a change of clothes, but he did find a fully-charged phone. Before leaving he also grabbed a first-aid kit from the wall beside the door, and a hacksaw from a toolbox pushed under a utility sink.
Back outside in the cloying heat, he crossed the parking lot and wasted no time unscrewing the blade from the saw and using it to jimmy open the door to a dark blue SUV he'd picked out earlier. For the second time that day, he hot-wired an engine and spun the tires in loose gravel as he peeled out of the lot and back onto the road toward New Orleans. Wincing as his bare foot pressed down on the accelerator, he grabbed the stolen phone and dialed Dean's number.
"Sammy?"
Sam fought to modulate his voice, convince Dean there was nothing to worry about. "Yeah, it's me. I'm on the road."
"You sound like crap."
Sam snorted; so much for that plan. "I'm… having a bad day."
"Understatement. How's the not-so-bad bullet in your arm?"
Like a red-hot poker through his biceps. "It's fine."
"Bull." Dean's voice softened. "Seriously, you gonna make it in one piece? I don't want your next call telling me you're neck-deep in swamp 'cause you couldn't see straight."
Sometimes it scared him how clearly Dean could read him. Sam had drifted into the oncoming lane, the SUV jerking sideways as he overcorrected. "Dude, relax. M'okay."
"Man, you suck at lying."
That made Sam smile. "I'm a damn good liar - at least when anyone but you is asking the questions."
It was Dean's turn to snort. "You got a phone, I see."
"Yeah. Swiped it from the staff locker room at the truck stop. I doubt its owner will notice it's gone until their shift's over."
"Any chance of a tail?"
Sam instinctively checked the rearview mirror. "No. I hid the Jeep, got new wheels, so they won't know what to look for. And this ride belongs to a long-haul trucker. Overheard him say he'd be gone two days just before he jumped into a rig with his partner, so I don't have to worry about cops either. Only obstacle left is 74 miles of Louisiana back roads."
"You did good, young Jedi. I taught you well."
"Oh, bite me." Sam wedged the phone between his ear and shoulder as he fumbled with the first-aid kit, popped open a bottle of Tylenol and dry swallowed three pills.
"Look, I'm not kidding about the check-ins. Every 15 minutes, got it?"
"Yes, sir." Sam grimaced as his stomach rumbled. "And, Dean, get some food. I'm frigging starving."
"Now I'm really worried - you're never hungry. And, dude, you were just in a freaking truck stop. Why didn't you swipe a burger when you swiped the phone?"
"Because I could pass for Freddy Krueger's second cousin. I've got feet that look like hamburger, a shirt that won't fasten with dried blood all over it, and it's so damn hot, I reek like a month-old gym bag. If anyone saw me, the only question is whether they'd call the cops or the white coats."
"When it comes to convincing me you're OK - Newsflash! You suck at that, too." Dean exhaled worriedly and Sam was pretty sure he was pacing. "Look, just… put your foot down and get back to town ASAP. I got you covered on grub and good drugs, and I'll give you a heads up on the new digs as soon I get there."
"Thanks, man." Sam focused on the road ahead and nothing more. "Talk to you in fifteen."
xxxXXXxxx
Dean peered around the dumpster, scanning the alley in front of him for any suspicious movement. There was none. Jack had picked the meeting place and, as promised, it was deserted.
But the hunter was ten minutes late and that was quickly putting Dean on edge. At least Sam had checked in on schedule, but the trip was taking longer than it should and his brother sounded worse each time Dean talked to him. If he didn't think it would be more distraction than help, he would have kept Sam on the phone until he pulled up in front of him and he knew for a fact he was safe.
Dean tensed when a beat-up brown pick-up pulled into the alley, but relaxed when he caught sight of the man behind the wheel: it was Jack.
The hunter was about the same size and age as Dad, his long, graying black hair pulled back into a curly ponytail. He wore a small gold hoop in his left ear, a compliment to the gold filling in his left incisor that had made five-year-old Sam ask him if he was a pirate.
"Over here." Dean stepped out of the shadow of the dumpster as Jack climbed out of the truck.
Jack met him with a warm hug. "Good to see you, son. Just wish it was under better circumstances. Still, it's good to know Sam gave those bastards the slip. How's he holding up?"
"He's been better." Dean motioned to Jack's ponytail. "Still rockin' the skullet, I see."
"Beck moi tchew," Jack muttered, slapping Dean good-naturedly on the shoulder before reaching back into the cab of his truck and pulling out a large, cardboard cup of coffee.
"I remember what that means." Dean grinned. "And if I'm taking a bite out of anyone's ass, it sure as hell won't be yours."
"And for that I'm grateful. Here." Jack handed Dean the coffee. "Black and rocket fuel strong, if I remember right."
"You do." Dean took a drink and coughed. "Although the bourbon chaser's new."
"New Orleans special. I figured you could use it. Sorry I'm late but some of the things you asked for were a little tougher to track down than I thought."
Dean frowned. "But you found 'em?"
Jack nodded. "Every item on the list." He motioned with his head for Dean to follow him to the rear of the truck. "You get away without being seen?"
"Went to the motel office and slipped out the back way." Dean checked his watch. "That was about an hour ago. If I had eyes on me, they've figured out by now I've given 'em the slip, but I wasn't followed."
"Good." Jack lowered the tailgate and pulled a map from his pocket. "Last time Sam checked in, you get a location on the truck stop like I asked?"
Dean nodded as he pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket. "A place called the Cajun Kitchen on U.S. 90. Signs say the nearest town is Chauvin."
Jack spread the map out on the tailgate, and marked an 'X' over the town's name. "And he drove for about thirty minutes after escaping the camp before he hit the diner?" When Dean nodded again, Jack stared at the map for a moment and then drew a circle around the X. "Anywhere you can get to from that truck stop within thirty minutes falls inside this circle, meaning so does Ti-Jean's camp. I'll do some digging to figure out where that bastard's holed up just in case Sam's in no shape to retrace his steps."
Jack pulled a key from his pocket and offered it to Dean. "Booked you into a place on Barracks Street, The Shelby Inn. Sounds fancy - it ain't. Take my truck, I'll meet up with you soon as I round up some back up."
"Thanks." Dean took the key but stared at it uncertainly.
Jack raised an eyebrow at Dean's expression. "What? After twenty-some years, now you don't trust me?"
"It's not that." Dean locked a steely gaze on Jack. "Besides, you know damn well if you double-crossed me, the gator that ate Wandell would be getting a second helping of hunter tonight."
Jack's laugh was deep and genuine. "Damn, boy, you are Johnny Winchester's son, through and through." His grin faded. "So, what is it?"
Dean shook his head. "Sam sounds rough. He's gonna want to be part of this fight, but my gut's telling me he's not up to it. Can't leave him behind, though - not with the bokor and his hounds sniffing after us."
Jack gestured to cab of the truck. "Guns, ammo and a fully-stocked first-aid kit are all in the duffel on the shotgun seat. Food and bottled water in the cooler on the floor. If your brother's anything like you, stitch him up and get some food in him and he'll be spoiling for a fight. If he's not, dope him up and call me. One of my crew, his wife's a retired nurse. What she lacks in charm, she makes up for in skill - and she's pretty damn good with a gun. If need be, she'll watch over Sam."
Dean nodded slowly. Sam wouldn't like it, but he could handle his brother being pissed if it kept him in one piece. "Any update on Parise?"
Jack nodded as he slammed shut the tailgate. "She's spent most of the past five years out of the country, supposedly teaching underprivileged kids in the Dominican Republic. Now, the last time I checked an atlas, the D.R. shared an island with-"
"Haiti." Dean's mouth went dry. "The motherland of dark Voodoo. She was studying to be a mambo?"
Jack nodded. "It's still not clear which side she's on, but if she's after Ti-Jean's job, I'd say she's got the resume to do it."
Dean scrubbed a hand down his face. "Can I pick'em, or what?"
Jack shot him a sympathetic smile. "If she looks anything like her mama, it would take a man of stone not to fall for that djablesse."
"Djablesse?"
"Female devil." Jack winked at Dean as he unzipped the duffel. "If I was just twenty years younger-"
"You'd still be in line behind me." Dean cleared his throat. "Now where's the stuff?"
"Everything's in the duffel - except these." Jack handed Dean two small gris-gris bags. "Had a friend make'em up - one each. Keep'em on you, they should hide you from Parise and Ti-Jean."
"Should?" Dean slipped the gris-gris bags into his pocket.
Jack shrugged. "Ain't no guarantees with Voodoo."
"Awesome." Dean slid behind the wheel of the truck and set his coffee in the cup holder. "What about the Jimson Weed?"
Jack reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a small glass bottle filled with a black liquid. "Mixed with sulfur and honey, ready to drink. Bottle was even rubbed against a black cat, just like the spell book says."
"Yum." Dean pulled out the stopper and raised the bottle in a mock toast. "L'chaim." He tossed it back in one gulp, and almost threw it right back up, gagging until his eyes watered. "Shit…. That tastes like shit."
Jack's grin was back. "Why'd you think I brought you the coffee? Shit tastes like foie gras next to that stuff. Here, there's one for your brother, too. You'll get the pleasure of watching his face when he drinks it." Jack handed over the second bottle, then clapped Dean on the shoulder. "Directions are in your phone, now get. Go take care of your brother."
"Damn, you got bossy in your old age." Dean was still gagging as he slipped Sam's bottle of Jimson Weed into a side pocket of the duffel. He pulled the door closed, then turned back to Jack as he turned the key in the ignition. "Dude, I'm itching for a fight. Make damn sure you get me a good one."
"Careful what you wish for." Jack offered a two-fingered salute as Dean drove away.
xxxXXXxxx
Blood loss, dehydration and building infection were all taking a toll, making Sam feel sick, dizzy and tired. He was having trouble focusing on the directions Dean had given him, both verbally and via text, and on the street signs as he drove through the city toward the Shelley Inn on Bokor Street.
Sam frowned. That wasn't right. He shook his head, then squeezed his eyes closed and opened them wide, before glancing down at the phone on the seat beside him: The Shelby Inn on Barracks Street. That was it.
The phone's GPS said Barracks Street was only a block away now; he just had to hang on until then, but it was a fight to keep the car straight. Sam snorted; after escaping homicidal hunters, a bokor and alligators, and surviving a two-hour drive with a bullet in his arm, it would be just his luck to be pulled over for impaired driving less than a block away from being reunited with his brother.
Sam allowed himself a small smile when he saw the sign for Barracks Street, and turned left, the truck swerving briefly into the oncoming lane before he quickly corrected. Don't hit the parked cars, don't hit the parked cars became his mantra as he drove along the narrow street. There was no center line to guide him but fortunately, no oncoming traffic, either.
He was driving one-handed now, his right arm refusing to co-operate for the past thirty minutes or so, the skin around the bullet wound tight and red hot to the touch. At some point on the drive he'd realized there was bottle of hydrogen peroxide in the first aid kit, twisted off the cap with his teeth and poured the contents directly onto the wound. That had almost put him in the swamp on the spot, and forced him to slam on the brakes, pull over and throw open the door while he puked up water and bile. He took advantage of the forced break to tie a bandage around his arm, the pressure helping numb the pain - at least for a brief period of time.
Each mile he drove seemed to take more and more out of him, making it harder to keep the car on the road. The regular check-ins with Dean had made the difference, his brother both teasing and comforting but helping him focus, making it possible to keep going. Now, he was almost there. Just a little farther. Just to the end of the street.
If they were forced to steal a vehicle, S.O.P. was to park it well away from their motel, giving police no way to connect the theft to them. Here, Sam didn't have that luxury. Stumbling through the streets, covered in blood, he was much more likely to draw unwanted attention than the stolen car he was in.
When he saw the sign for the Shelby Inn, he pulled into the parking lot, fumbled left-handed to shove the gearshift into park, and collapsed back onto the seat in relief when he did. His vision blurred as he scanned the row of doors; what the hell number was he looking for?
Six, that was it. Room 6 - the one on the end.
There was a battered brown truck parked in front of the room. In their last phone check-in, Dean had told him that he had Jack's truck, that he was five minutes away from the motel and that he'd park it right in front of the room as soon as he got there. Good, Dean had made it, too; his brother was safely behind the battered green door of Room 6.
"Now get your sorry ass off this seat and into the room," Sam muttered to himself, lifting his injured arm into his lap as he reached over to turn off the engine. Dean would dig out the bullet, sew him up, dope him up and chew him out for getting shot in the first place, just not necessarily in that order.
Sam opened the door, then mentally kicked himself. "Phone, asshat. Don't forget the phone." With one gimp hand, it wasn't easy to turn over the phone and pull out the chip but eventually he did it. He set the chip on the dashboard and smashed it with the metal first aid box. No one was tracing that phone. Then he unfolded himself from the SUV.
After a quick glance across the parking lot confirmed it was deserted, Sam stumbled over to Room 6, the motel twisting and warping in front of him like something out of Alice in Wonderland, while the hot asphalt burned his torn feet. He fell against the door, rather than standing in front of it, and pounded on the peeling paint with his fist. "Dean!" His voice cracked. "Open up. It's me."
Sam was fading fast; he had no idea if seconds or minutes passed before the door opened but suddenly his brother was standing right in front of him. He managed a smile even as his eyes slid closed. "Dude, I'd hug you, but if I let go of this doorframe, I'm pretty sure I'll fall down."
He opened his eyes when Dean said nothing, his smile fading as he took in the completely blank look on Dean's face. But before he could question it, Dean grabbed him by the shirt, hauled him into the room and threw a punch, his fist connecting solidly with Sam's jaw. Weak and off-balance, Sam went down hard. He didn't get back up.
Parise appeared suddenly at Dean's side, DaCoste and Maillet standing just behind her. "Good work, Dean." The mambo's attention shifted to the unconscious Sam, a cold smile spreading across her face as she hooked her arm through Dean's. "Sorry, Sammy. We got to him first."
A/N: But at least the boys are back together. *ducks behind the couch*
Continues in Chapter 4A
SUMMARY: Casefic. The tables are turned on Sam and Dean - this time they're the hunted, and it's a new enemy who wants them.
SPOILERS: Set late in Season 7. References to canon incidents through Season 6, and some oblique references to a couple of Season 7 incidents but no plot spoilers for anything in Season 7. This is a casefic which takes place in-between canon hunts.
DISCLAIMER: The characters of Supernatural belong to Eric Kripke & Co. I am playing in their sandbox, with their toys, with much gratitude.
RATING: PG-13 for swearing, including the 'big boy' words, as Jensen once called them, adult situations, and violence.
WORD COUNT: 10K
GENRE: Gen/Hurt-Comfort
A/N: I've done research for the medical and Voodoo aspects of this story, but am certainly no expert in either. For the medical info, please forgive any inaccuracies. For the Voodoo, I have done what Supernatural itself does - take factual elements and present them in a fictional way, mixing together lore from New Orleans, Haiti and West Africa.
Written for JaniceC678 and LittleLady, based on a plot bunny they came up with, and gave me to play with. The full prompt will appear at the end of the story so as not to spoil things. This is a five-chapter fic; all chapters are complete and all have been beta-ed by the always awesome Harrigan. I tinkered post-beta, so any remaining goofs are mine and mine alone. I will post a new chapter every other day until we're done, so you won't be left hanging on any cliffs ahead for too, too long. *g* I hope this helps fill the time until we get new onscreen adventures with the Winchester brothers this fall. Enjoy.
Link back to Chapter 2 Here.
BLOOD OF THE BAYOU - Chapter Three
"How you holding up?"
"We get Sam back, I'll be fine. But at least now I've got something we can work with." Dean sat on the motel bed and flipped his phone to speaker before jamming his flash drive into the laptop. The computer quickly uploaded the images he'd taken from the gas station security camera footage. "It took three gas stations to find it but I have a dirty black pick-up with a flag bumper sticker, gold star and everything. Got a shot of the driver, too. It's not great, but if you know him you should be able to recognize him."
"Good."
"There." Dean hit send. "Pics are on their way to your phone. Anything on Parise?"
"She ain't been in New York for some time, although she was often seen in the company of black mambo when she lived there. We're still trying to track where she went." Jack sounded worried. "And there's more bad news. Whatever Ti-Jean's got planned, it's going down tomorrow night."
"Tomorrow?" Dean stared at the phone, his fingers frozen over the keyboard. That gave them less than a day to find Sam.
"You heard of the Blood Moon?"
"Yeah, it's the hunter's moon, first full moon of the fall equinox." Dean frowned. "It's big in Native American lore, but what does it mean in Bo?"
"It's said to be a time when the forces of nature are in perfect alignment. Whatever spells are performed beneath it are amplified. If Ti-Jean's conjuring for power, for example-"
"He gets an atom bomb instead of a firecracker." Dean's heart started racing. "But how the hell does Sam tie into this?"
"That's what we have to figure out. OK, your photos just landed. The one of the truck - that star on the bumper is the flag of Acadiana, the Cajun flag, and that's bayou mud spattered all over it. Every truck that comes out of the swamp looks like that. As for the driver…." Jack clicked open the second photo. "I'd say that's Charlie Maillet, especially since the son of a bitch lives out on the bayou and drives a black Ford F-150. He's a hunter but sketchy on his best days - and he's been known to cozy up to Ti-Jean. Lately, he's been partnered up with a hunter from the Midwest…. Wandell, that's it."
"Wandell." Bile rose in Dean's throat.
"I take it you know the name?"
"Yeah. Long story, but let's just say the bastard has grudge against Sam."
"So if Wandell met up with Ti-Jean and the two of them got to talking…."
"The bokor would know everything the hunters' grapevine knows about Sam." Dean's jaw clenched; that was way more than he was comfortable with anyone knowing, let alone a bokor. "Where do I find 'em? And don't give me that wait 'til we're ready bullshit. Hunters I can handle and you said it yourself, we're on a deadline."
Jack exhaled slowly. "Yeah. Let me put out some feelers. If they're still in town, we'll be able to track 'em down."
"Good. You can-" Dean's phone beeped, signaling another call. Dean picked it up and frowned at the unfamiliar number. "Got another call. I'll get back to you."
"Keep me in the loop."
Dean clicked to the other call. "Yeah?"
A woman's voice came over the line. "I have a collect call from a Sam Smith. Will you ac-"
"Put it through." Dean's heart was suddenly punching his ribs. "Sammy?"
"Yeah, Dean. It's me."
Dean couldn't get the words out fast enough. "Y'okay? Where the hell are you? You got away, right?"
"One question at a time, dude." Sam sounded tired. "One, I'll live. Two, a truck stop - best guess, it's seventy, eighty miles west of New Orleans. And three, yeah - I stole some wheels, been driving for thirty, forty minutes already just to get out of the swamp."
Dean scowled. "The swamp?"
"Yeah. They kept me in some camp out on the bayou. This is the first phone I passed since I got outta there, not to mention the first sign of civilization."
Dean sank back against the headboard. "Damn, it's good to hear your voice.…" His tone hardened. "It was Wandell's brother, wasn't it - the hunter who took you?"
"Yeah, but this wasn't his gig. Wandell's dead."
"What? You killed him?"
"No. He handed me over to a bokor named Ti-Jean. The bokor took him out with some black magic hoodoo. That's what's behind this, Dean. There's some big Bo ceremony going down and-"
"I know. I-" Dean scowled at a hiss from the other end of the phone. "I thought you said you were OK?"
"I am."
"Bull. What'd they do to you?"
"I…." Sam bit back a groan. "I got winged by a bullet getting away. It's no big deal. Once I get it out, I-"
"Son of a bitch…." Dean launched himself off the bed and grabbed his keys from the dresser. "Tell me where you are - I'm coming to get you."
"Dean, no. I told you - I'm OK. I've got wheels, I-"
"Since when does kidnapped and shot equal OK? And what? I'm just supposed to sit here and let you drive yourself home with a bullet in you?"
"Yes. Look, it'll take twice as long for me to get back if I have to wait for you to pick me up, and we both know I'm safer on the move. They're gonna come after me." Sam sounded equal parts frustrated by and grateful for Dean's overprotective streak. "But there's a few things you need to know that can't wait. Most important - they're after you, too."
"Me?" Dean's knuckles whitened around his keys, but he snorted dismissively. "I'll add their names to the list."
"Quit screwing around. The woman from the bar, the one you left with, she's mixed up in this, and pretty high up the food chain. I think she's the mambo. The blonde who was hitting on me, Carrie, she's also involved - a hounsis, maybe."
"Yeah. That much I know. I've been talking to Jack Delacroix. We can connect the dots between both women and the bokor, and right now this Ti-Jean in the middle of some Voodoo turf war. Someone's after his job only he doesn't know who. My guess is it's his very own mambo."
That surprised Sam. "The woman you were with last night?"
Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. "Let's move past that, shall we? Tomorrow night's the Blood Moon and, according to Jack, any spell you cast under it gets a turbo-boost. Obviously, Ti-Jean's looking for some new powers to tip the odds in his favor, but what we don't know is why they need you to do it."
"Not me, Dean. Us. I told you, they're coming after you, too."
Dean shook his head. "That doesn't make sense. I was with Parise. She had me." He rolled his eyes. "In every sense of the word. If they wanted me, why'd she let me go? I'm guessing she just kept me out of the way so they could get to you."
"No, you're definitely a part of this. One, the mambo - Parise? - told her men to stay away from you until she figured out a way to break the protection of our tattoos and two, if she's the rival, she's not gonna give the bokor all the tools he needs to secure his power. Maybe she's delaying until she can figure out a way to beat him at his own game."
Dean frowned, subconsciously running his fingers down his sternum. "What was that about our tattoos?"
"She said she needed time to find a spell to break their protection. Dude, they only protect us from one thing...."
"Possession. Son of a bitch…." Dean's stomach lurched when he thought back to Parise's fascination with his tattoo. "Demons aren't the only ones who can take over your meatsuit."
"No, loas can, too." Sam sounded sick. "But why us? How does that get this bokor more power?"
Dean's mind was spinning, trying to figure out just that. "We know Ti-Jean was working with Wandell, and Wandell would be hooked into the hunter grapevine, so he'd know about the demon blood, your history with Lucifer - some of it, anyway. Maybe Ti-Jean thinks you still have Luci on speed dial and the two of them can swap dark secrets. But that doesn't explain why they want me."
"You've been to Hell, you're Michael's vessel-"
"Michael never rode this train."
"Wandell wouldn't know that." Sam hissed again, obviously still in pain. "And Voodoo-"
"OK, screw this discussion for now." Dean hated the helpless feeling that came with being eighty miles from his injured brother. "You need to get your ass back here. Once I see for myself just how OK you really are, then we'll figure out our next move."
"You can't stay there, Dean. You said Parise came by the motel. I got away - if they can't find me, they're gonna focus on you."
Sam was right. Dean moved over to the window, suspiciously scanning the parking lot. "You on a payphone?"
"Yeah."
"Then steal yourself a cell and check in every 15 minutes on the drive back - and I mean every 15 minutes. I'll slip out of here, shake loose any tail, then get us some new digs where we can regroup." He frowned when there was no answer. "Sammy?"
"You slept with her."
Dean raised an eyebrow. "You pick now to go all judgmental."
"Dean, we're dealing with black magic. You know as well as I do, the best way to mark someone, to control them, is get hold of hair, skin... bodily fluids. You used protection, right? So-"
"Dude, stop!" Dean felt like he was going to puke. "You are seriously squicking me out."
Suddenly the roles were reversed and Sam was worrying about Dean. "Before you take off, take a shower. Beyond the… obvious, she may have touched you with some powder, some oil that-"
"Yeah, yeah…. I know the drill."
"Does she have anything else of yours? Something she might have taken, something you left behind that could be used to track you or curse you?"
"Beyond… you know, I left some clothes there but…." Dean's frown returned as he glanced down at the small carrier bag on the chair by the door. "She brought them back. Why would she give 'em up if she wanted to curse me? Shit…." He grabbed the bag, pulled out his freshly laundered socks and underwear and stuck his hand inside each, expecting to find a gris-gris - the Voodoo equivalent of a hex bag - but there was nothing. "No, they're clean - at least as far as I can tell."
"Don't take any chances, burn 'em. Hell, burn everything you were wearing when you were with her, everything she touched."
"Dude, come on - everything she touched? We had sex."
"Then get your ass and everything attached to it into the shower, scrub your skin raw. Call Jack again. He'll know the best kind of gris-gris to ward off any hex she tries to throw at you. Oh, fuck…."
Dean scowled at the phone. "I'm not gonna like this, am I?"
"When I came to, my shirt was gone - my blood's on it."
Which meant they had the means to curse Sam, too. "Oh, fuck is right." The muscle along Dean's jaw twitched. "Before this gig is over, I better be able to kill something or I am gonna lose it." He scrubbed a hand through his hair. "OK, get a phone, change up rides, then call me. I'm not going anywhere 'til I know you're traveling with Ma Bell. Then get your oversized self back to town double-time. And don't forget the check-ins."
"Yes, Dad."
"Asshat." Dean again scanned the parking lot. "Now go swipe a phone… and keep your eyes peeled."
"You, too - and take a shower."
When Sam hung up, Dean tossed the phone on the bed, headed for the bathroom and stripped off his clothes. The water was still warming up when he stepped under the spray and grabbed the tiny motel soap. "You'd think you would have learned your lesson with Lydia, but no…. It's just a one night stand, you've got protection, everything's good," he sing-songed as he began to scrub, his skin quickly turning pink under the assault. "What a crock of shit. Maybe Sammy's onto something with this monk thing."
He shuddered at that thought.
Sammy.
Talking to his brother had eased some of the pressure in his chest that had been building since Sam disappeared, but it wouldn't go away completely until Sam walked through the door and he saw for himself what kind of shape the kid was in. Sam had learned a lot about hunting from Dean and, unfortunately, downplaying injuries was one of them.
Dean ran the soap over his tattoo, subconsciously scrubbing even harder at the thought of Parise touching it, touching him. Possession. So far he'd escaped that particular torture and he had every damn intention of keeping that record intact.
But how would possessing him and Sam boost the bokor's power?
Sam had the Lucifer connection and they'd both been to Hell. Dean froze, arm braced against the shower wall, oblivious to the rapidly cooling water. They'd also both died. Under the letter of Voodoo law, that made them zombies.
Sam had lived without a soul for more than a year, and Dean had been worm food for more than four months. Dean scrubbed the water from his face; Cas had reassembled him and Death had tucked Sam's soul back inside that ridiculous six-pack but, by Voodoo definition, they were still the living dead. Rightful ownership of theirs souls reverted back to the gods, the 'loa,' the moment they were separated from the body.
Souls were power, pure energy. Had the bokor found a way to use that loophole to claim their souls as a weapon in his battle to hold on to power?
"Son of a bitch." Dean slammed his fist into the shower wall, the tile cracking under the assault, the water running down it turning pink as a shard of broken porcelain sliced into his knuckles. Wandell wouldn't know all the details of their multiple deaths and resurrections, but enough were common hunter knowledge for Wandell to be able to share them with the bokor.
Dean shivered, and not just because it suddenly registered that the water was icy cold. He shut off the tap, threw back the curtain and stepped out of the tub. He'd just wrapped one threadbare towel around his hips and was scrubbing his face and hair dry with another when his phone rang. "Sammy? You back on the road?"
"Sorry, Dean, it's just me." It was Jack's voice. "Wait - you heard from Sam?"
"Yeah, he got away. He's on his way back, but…." Dean threw the wet towel into the tub and scowled down at his bloody knuckles, the urge to punch something back in full force. "The bastards shot him, Jack."
"What? Is he-"
"He says he's OK." Dean moved back into the room, pulling fresh clothes from his duffel. "But I won't know what OK means 'til I see him."
"Where is he?"
"Out in the bayou west of the city. He's hurting and still needs to find fresh wheels, so I'd say he's at least a couple of hours out." Dean swapped the phone to his other hand as he pulled his T-shirt over his head. "But he saw preparations for Ti-Jean's shindig at the camp where they held him. Once he's back, we give him a map, he'll be able to point it out for us. Oh, and Wandell's dead. Ti-Jean killed him."
"That fits." Jack didn't seemed surprised by that last piece of news. "I checked in with some police sources. A body, or at least most of it, showed up in a fisherman's net this morning out in that same part of the state. Got me a look at the police photos. It was a little hard to tell, but my money says it's Wandell."
Dean had no sympathy to waste on the man who'd kidnapped Sam and handed him over to a Bo sorcerer. "The missing pieces, did the bokor do that?"
"Nah, more like gators after they tossed him in the water. So what's the plan now?"
Dean trusted Jack, but he didn't want to share his theory on Ti-Jean being after their souls just yet; he'd bounce it off Sam first. "Once I know Sam's got a phone and a fresh ride, I'm heading out to find us some new digs, ones Parise doesn't know about."
"I know a place, well off the beaten path. You leave it with me, I'll set it up. Just get yourself the hell out of there and I'll text you a rendezvous point."
"Sounds good." Dean glanced down at the bag Parise had returned. "And while you're at it, I need a few things you can't get at the Gas 'n' Sip."
xxxXXXxxx
Sam slipped through the unlocked back door of the truck stop. It led into a short hallway with restrooms on one side and a staff locker room on the other. Zydeco music and the usual restaurant noises filtered in from the front of the building but, for the moment, the hallway itself was deserted.
He ducked into the men's room, locked the door and fell back against it, catching his breath. A quick glance at the cracked mirror above the sink confirmed what he already knew; he was a mess. Dirt mixed with sweat was smeared across day-old stubble, there was dried blood on his forehead and a black eye from where he'd smacked his head on the fire alarm back at the motel. His hair? Well, Dean would have a field day when he saw it. Add to that the shirt that didn't fasten, the blood-soaked sleeve from the bullet wound, and bloody, filthy bare feet and anyone who saw him would be calling the cops before he had a chance to say, 'Wait-'
He hobbled to the sink, turned on the tap and ignored the burn in his injured arm as he scrubbed away dirt, blood and sweat from his face. He raked wet hands through his hair, taming it as best he could, then stuck his mouth under the faucet and drank greedily. Screw the bitter, metallic taste; it was the best damn water he'd ever had.
Sam then turned his attention to his arm and his feet. He left the tap running as he pulled off his shirt, wincing as fabric stuck in dried blood pulled at the skin around the bullet wound. He almost passed out poking at the injury, white knuckling the edge of the sink until the pain-fueled dizziness passed, and nearly putting his teeth through his bottom lip biting back a yell. There was no exit wound but he couldn't see the bullet, the swelling skin around the entry point swallowing it whole. Moving his arm hurt like hell, but he could move it, meaning bone damage was unlikely. His immediate dilemma was whether to leave the bullet in place and risk infection, or try to pull it out and risk bleeding out. He chose the former; infection was the slower of the two enemies. He would be back in the city before it fully took hold, and then Dean would take care of it, take care of him. If he bled out, he'd die in a ditch before he even got close to the city.
He used soap from the wall dispenser to scrub his arm and his battered feet, again almost biting through his lip as he did so. As far as first aid was concerned, it was a long way from ideal but, hey, you worked with what you had.
Sam dried his feet, then put his shirt back on, rolling up the sleeves in an attempt to hide both the bullet wound and the blood stain on the fabric. While drying his hands, he glanced again in the mirror. Who the hell was he trying to kid? He'd dropped a notch on the feeling-like-crap scale but anyone who caught sight of him would still be calling 9-1-1 - for the paramedics if he was lucky, the cops if he wasn't.
Decision made to stay out of sight, his focus shifted to finding a phone. Since picking the pocket of a customer was out, his next best option was the staff locker room across the hall. Sam leaned against the door and listened; assured the hallway was still empty, he quickly moved from the bathroom to the locker room, and slipped inside. Luck was still with him - the room was empty.
It was small, holding only three lockers, each of which was just latched shut. Sam riffled through the contents; all three were in use by female employees so none offered him a change of clothes, but he did find a fully-charged phone. Before leaving he also grabbed a first-aid kit from the wall beside the door, and a hacksaw from a toolbox pushed under a utility sink.
Back outside in the cloying heat, he crossed the parking lot and wasted no time unscrewing the blade from the saw and using it to jimmy open the door to a dark blue SUV he'd picked out earlier. For the second time that day, he hot-wired an engine and spun the tires in loose gravel as he peeled out of the lot and back onto the road toward New Orleans. Wincing as his bare foot pressed down on the accelerator, he grabbed the stolen phone and dialed Dean's number.
"Sammy?"
Sam fought to modulate his voice, convince Dean there was nothing to worry about. "Yeah, it's me. I'm on the road."
"You sound like crap."
Sam snorted; so much for that plan. "I'm… having a bad day."
"Understatement. How's the not-so-bad bullet in your arm?"
Like a red-hot poker through his biceps. "It's fine."
"Bull." Dean's voice softened. "Seriously, you gonna make it in one piece? I don't want your next call telling me you're neck-deep in swamp 'cause you couldn't see straight."
Sometimes it scared him how clearly Dean could read him. Sam had drifted into the oncoming lane, the SUV jerking sideways as he overcorrected. "Dude, relax. M'okay."
"Man, you suck at lying."
That made Sam smile. "I'm a damn good liar - at least when anyone but you is asking the questions."
It was Dean's turn to snort. "You got a phone, I see."
"Yeah. Swiped it from the staff locker room at the truck stop. I doubt its owner will notice it's gone until their shift's over."
"Any chance of a tail?"
Sam instinctively checked the rearview mirror. "No. I hid the Jeep, got new wheels, so they won't know what to look for. And this ride belongs to a long-haul trucker. Overheard him say he'd be gone two days just before he jumped into a rig with his partner, so I don't have to worry about cops either. Only obstacle left is 74 miles of Louisiana back roads."
"You did good, young Jedi. I taught you well."
"Oh, bite me." Sam wedged the phone between his ear and shoulder as he fumbled with the first-aid kit, popped open a bottle of Tylenol and dry swallowed three pills.
"Look, I'm not kidding about the check-ins. Every 15 minutes, got it?"
"Yes, sir." Sam grimaced as his stomach rumbled. "And, Dean, get some food. I'm frigging starving."
"Now I'm really worried - you're never hungry. And, dude, you were just in a freaking truck stop. Why didn't you swipe a burger when you swiped the phone?"
"Because I could pass for Freddy Krueger's second cousin. I've got feet that look like hamburger, a shirt that won't fasten with dried blood all over it, and it's so damn hot, I reek like a month-old gym bag. If anyone saw me, the only question is whether they'd call the cops or the white coats."
"When it comes to convincing me you're OK - Newsflash! You suck at that, too." Dean exhaled worriedly and Sam was pretty sure he was pacing. "Look, just… put your foot down and get back to town ASAP. I got you covered on grub and good drugs, and I'll give you a heads up on the new digs as soon I get there."
"Thanks, man." Sam focused on the road ahead and nothing more. "Talk to you in fifteen."
xxxXXXxxx
Dean peered around the dumpster, scanning the alley in front of him for any suspicious movement. There was none. Jack had picked the meeting place and, as promised, it was deserted.
But the hunter was ten minutes late and that was quickly putting Dean on edge. At least Sam had checked in on schedule, but the trip was taking longer than it should and his brother sounded worse each time Dean talked to him. If he didn't think it would be more distraction than help, he would have kept Sam on the phone until he pulled up in front of him and he knew for a fact he was safe.
Dean tensed when a beat-up brown pick-up pulled into the alley, but relaxed when he caught sight of the man behind the wheel: it was Jack.
The hunter was about the same size and age as Dad, his long, graying black hair pulled back into a curly ponytail. He wore a small gold hoop in his left ear, a compliment to the gold filling in his left incisor that had made five-year-old Sam ask him if he was a pirate.
"Over here." Dean stepped out of the shadow of the dumpster as Jack climbed out of the truck.
Jack met him with a warm hug. "Good to see you, son. Just wish it was under better circumstances. Still, it's good to know Sam gave those bastards the slip. How's he holding up?"
"He's been better." Dean motioned to Jack's ponytail. "Still rockin' the skullet, I see."
"Beck moi tchew," Jack muttered, slapping Dean good-naturedly on the shoulder before reaching back into the cab of his truck and pulling out a large, cardboard cup of coffee.
"I remember what that means." Dean grinned. "And if I'm taking a bite out of anyone's ass, it sure as hell won't be yours."
"And for that I'm grateful. Here." Jack handed Dean the coffee. "Black and rocket fuel strong, if I remember right."
"You do." Dean took a drink and coughed. "Although the bourbon chaser's new."
"New Orleans special. I figured you could use it. Sorry I'm late but some of the things you asked for were a little tougher to track down than I thought."
Dean frowned. "But you found 'em?"
Jack nodded. "Every item on the list." He motioned with his head for Dean to follow him to the rear of the truck. "You get away without being seen?"
"Went to the motel office and slipped out the back way." Dean checked his watch. "That was about an hour ago. If I had eyes on me, they've figured out by now I've given 'em the slip, but I wasn't followed."
"Good." Jack lowered the tailgate and pulled a map from his pocket. "Last time Sam checked in, you get a location on the truck stop like I asked?"
Dean nodded as he pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket. "A place called the Cajun Kitchen on U.S. 90. Signs say the nearest town is Chauvin."
Jack spread the map out on the tailgate, and marked an 'X' over the town's name. "And he drove for about thirty minutes after escaping the camp before he hit the diner?" When Dean nodded again, Jack stared at the map for a moment and then drew a circle around the X. "Anywhere you can get to from that truck stop within thirty minutes falls inside this circle, meaning so does Ti-Jean's camp. I'll do some digging to figure out where that bastard's holed up just in case Sam's in no shape to retrace his steps."
Jack pulled a key from his pocket and offered it to Dean. "Booked you into a place on Barracks Street, The Shelby Inn. Sounds fancy - it ain't. Take my truck, I'll meet up with you soon as I round up some back up."
"Thanks." Dean took the key but stared at it uncertainly.
Jack raised an eyebrow at Dean's expression. "What? After twenty-some years, now you don't trust me?"
"It's not that." Dean locked a steely gaze on Jack. "Besides, you know damn well if you double-crossed me, the gator that ate Wandell would be getting a second helping of hunter tonight."
Jack's laugh was deep and genuine. "Damn, boy, you are Johnny Winchester's son, through and through." His grin faded. "So, what is it?"
Dean shook his head. "Sam sounds rough. He's gonna want to be part of this fight, but my gut's telling me he's not up to it. Can't leave him behind, though - not with the bokor and his hounds sniffing after us."
Jack gestured to cab of the truck. "Guns, ammo and a fully-stocked first-aid kit are all in the duffel on the shotgun seat. Food and bottled water in the cooler on the floor. If your brother's anything like you, stitch him up and get some food in him and he'll be spoiling for a fight. If he's not, dope him up and call me. One of my crew, his wife's a retired nurse. What she lacks in charm, she makes up for in skill - and she's pretty damn good with a gun. If need be, she'll watch over Sam."
Dean nodded slowly. Sam wouldn't like it, but he could handle his brother being pissed if it kept him in one piece. "Any update on Parise?"
Jack nodded as he slammed shut the tailgate. "She's spent most of the past five years out of the country, supposedly teaching underprivileged kids in the Dominican Republic. Now, the last time I checked an atlas, the D.R. shared an island with-"
"Haiti." Dean's mouth went dry. "The motherland of dark Voodoo. She was studying to be a mambo?"
Jack nodded. "It's still not clear which side she's on, but if she's after Ti-Jean's job, I'd say she's got the resume to do it."
Dean scrubbed a hand down his face. "Can I pick'em, or what?"
Jack shot him a sympathetic smile. "If she looks anything like her mama, it would take a man of stone not to fall for that djablesse."
"Djablesse?"
"Female devil." Jack winked at Dean as he unzipped the duffel. "If I was just twenty years younger-"
"You'd still be in line behind me." Dean cleared his throat. "Now where's the stuff?"
"Everything's in the duffel - except these." Jack handed Dean two small gris-gris bags. "Had a friend make'em up - one each. Keep'em on you, they should hide you from Parise and Ti-Jean."
"Should?" Dean slipped the gris-gris bags into his pocket.
Jack shrugged. "Ain't no guarantees with Voodoo."
"Awesome." Dean slid behind the wheel of the truck and set his coffee in the cup holder. "What about the Jimson Weed?"
Jack reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a small glass bottle filled with a black liquid. "Mixed with sulfur and honey, ready to drink. Bottle was even rubbed against a black cat, just like the spell book says."
"Yum." Dean pulled out the stopper and raised the bottle in a mock toast. "L'chaim." He tossed it back in one gulp, and almost threw it right back up, gagging until his eyes watered. "Shit…. That tastes like shit."
Jack's grin was back. "Why'd you think I brought you the coffee? Shit tastes like foie gras next to that stuff. Here, there's one for your brother, too. You'll get the pleasure of watching his face when he drinks it." Jack handed over the second bottle, then clapped Dean on the shoulder. "Directions are in your phone, now get. Go take care of your brother."
"Damn, you got bossy in your old age." Dean was still gagging as he slipped Sam's bottle of Jimson Weed into a side pocket of the duffel. He pulled the door closed, then turned back to Jack as he turned the key in the ignition. "Dude, I'm itching for a fight. Make damn sure you get me a good one."
"Careful what you wish for." Jack offered a two-fingered salute as Dean drove away.
xxxXXXxxx
Blood loss, dehydration and building infection were all taking a toll, making Sam feel sick, dizzy and tired. He was having trouble focusing on the directions Dean had given him, both verbally and via text, and on the street signs as he drove through the city toward the Shelley Inn on Bokor Street.
Sam frowned. That wasn't right. He shook his head, then squeezed his eyes closed and opened them wide, before glancing down at the phone on the seat beside him: The Shelby Inn on Barracks Street. That was it.
The phone's GPS said Barracks Street was only a block away now; he just had to hang on until then, but it was a fight to keep the car straight. Sam snorted; after escaping homicidal hunters, a bokor and alligators, and surviving a two-hour drive with a bullet in his arm, it would be just his luck to be pulled over for impaired driving less than a block away from being reunited with his brother.
Sam allowed himself a small smile when he saw the sign for Barracks Street, and turned left, the truck swerving briefly into the oncoming lane before he quickly corrected. Don't hit the parked cars, don't hit the parked cars became his mantra as he drove along the narrow street. There was no center line to guide him but fortunately, no oncoming traffic, either.
He was driving one-handed now, his right arm refusing to co-operate for the past thirty minutes or so, the skin around the bullet wound tight and red hot to the touch. At some point on the drive he'd realized there was bottle of hydrogen peroxide in the first aid kit, twisted off the cap with his teeth and poured the contents directly onto the wound. That had almost put him in the swamp on the spot, and forced him to slam on the brakes, pull over and throw open the door while he puked up water and bile. He took advantage of the forced break to tie a bandage around his arm, the pressure helping numb the pain - at least for a brief period of time.
Each mile he drove seemed to take more and more out of him, making it harder to keep the car on the road. The regular check-ins with Dean had made the difference, his brother both teasing and comforting but helping him focus, making it possible to keep going. Now, he was almost there. Just a little farther. Just to the end of the street.
If they were forced to steal a vehicle, S.O.P. was to park it well away from their motel, giving police no way to connect the theft to them. Here, Sam didn't have that luxury. Stumbling through the streets, covered in blood, he was much more likely to draw unwanted attention than the stolen car he was in.
When he saw the sign for the Shelby Inn, he pulled into the parking lot, fumbled left-handed to shove the gearshift into park, and collapsed back onto the seat in relief when he did. His vision blurred as he scanned the row of doors; what the hell number was he looking for?
Six, that was it. Room 6 - the one on the end.
There was a battered brown truck parked in front of the room. In their last phone check-in, Dean had told him that he had Jack's truck, that he was five minutes away from the motel and that he'd park it right in front of the room as soon as he got there. Good, Dean had made it, too; his brother was safely behind the battered green door of Room 6.
"Now get your sorry ass off this seat and into the room," Sam muttered to himself, lifting his injured arm into his lap as he reached over to turn off the engine. Dean would dig out the bullet, sew him up, dope him up and chew him out for getting shot in the first place, just not necessarily in that order.
Sam opened the door, then mentally kicked himself. "Phone, asshat. Don't forget the phone." With one gimp hand, it wasn't easy to turn over the phone and pull out the chip but eventually he did it. He set the chip on the dashboard and smashed it with the metal first aid box. No one was tracing that phone. Then he unfolded himself from the SUV.
After a quick glance across the parking lot confirmed it was deserted, Sam stumbled over to Room 6, the motel twisting and warping in front of him like something out of Alice in Wonderland, while the hot asphalt burned his torn feet. He fell against the door, rather than standing in front of it, and pounded on the peeling paint with his fist. "Dean!" His voice cracked. "Open up. It's me."
Sam was fading fast; he had no idea if seconds or minutes passed before the door opened but suddenly his brother was standing right in front of him. He managed a smile even as his eyes slid closed. "Dude, I'd hug you, but if I let go of this doorframe, I'm pretty sure I'll fall down."
He opened his eyes when Dean said nothing, his smile fading as he took in the completely blank look on Dean's face. But before he could question it, Dean grabbed him by the shirt, hauled him into the room and threw a punch, his fist connecting solidly with Sam's jaw. Weak and off-balance, Sam went down hard. He didn't get back up.
Parise appeared suddenly at Dean's side, DaCoste and Maillet standing just behind her. "Good work, Dean." The mambo's attention shifted to the unconscious Sam, a cold smile spreading across her face as she hooked her arm through Dean's. "Sorry, Sammy. We got to him first."
A/N: But at least the boys are back together. *ducks behind the couch*
Continues in Chapter 4A