Blood of the Bayou 4b/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.
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
Link back to Chapter 4a Here.
In the harsh light of day, Dean wasn't feeling quite so confident.
He'd had too much time to think about everything that could possibly go wrong.
Sam had eventually drifted off, despite his best efforts to fight the pull of sleep. The sound of hammering and muted voices woke him after only a couple of hours as workers had shown up at dawn to begin pulling off the boards that covered the upper half of each wall of the shack. The door and window were soon gone, too, leaving the roof held up by the four corner posts and the tall center column. None of this came as a surprise; peristyles were usually open-air structures. Those directly involved with the ceremony stayed under the roof, while the Bo followers gathered around the outside of the building to watch the proceedings.
Parise and Carrie returned a few hours after the workers. They changed the bandage on Sam's arm, removed the bandages from his feet, only applying salve rather than replacing the dressings, and left a bowl of fruit and bread and fresh bottles of water as breakfast.
Since then, the brothers had had little time to themselves. Junior priestesses came and went throughout the day, bringing fresh flowers and sweets for Erzulie's altar, garlands of flowers to wrap around each post and other ceremonial items. Two men showed up with drums, placing them just to the right of Kalfou's altar. The veve artist returned, tweaking and tidying his work - but if he noticed a significant drop in the amount of gunpowder it contained, he gave no sign. Still more workers set the large campfire in front of the peristyle while DaCoste and his armed men patrolled the bank of the bayou to keep the alligators at bay.
Dean studied Sam. He seemed steadier, stronger than the night before - at least the forced rest had had that one benefit. The flush of fever was gone and he was now more pissed than in pain. Still, he was a long way from being ready to fight his way out of the camp.
Sam seemed to read his mind. "I want outta here, Dean. Whatever it takes, I'm up for it."
Yeah, the mind was willing but the body needed a few more days rest to back it up.
Sam waited until DaCoste had turned away from the peristyle. "What about you? Any aftertaste from Parise's hex?"
Dean reflexively curled his fists. "I'm back in the driver's seat - one hundred per cent."
Sam still seemed worried. "How long does the Jimson Weed last?"
"Good question." Dean could only offer a small shrug. "Let's hope it's long enough."
Half-way through the afternoon, Parise showed up with DaCoste and another armed man in tow, and dropped a pair of pull-on canvas loafers in front of each brother. "Put those on."
Sam picked up a shoe and scowled at the mambo. "Why?"
Parise huffed impatiently. "Because, to be blunt, you stink. You need to bathe before the ceremony. Erzulie demands it. Now, I can have DaCoste toss you in the bayou, and you can take your chances with the alligators, or you can come up to the cabin and shower there. The choice is yours."
"Turn the stars of this shindig into gator bait hours before the show is set to open?" Dean turned slowly toward her, a dangerous smile spreading across his face. "Kind of an empty threat, don't you think?"
Parise returned the smile in kind. "And the caged lion bares his teeth."
"Oh, I have quite a bite." Dean winked at her. "Course, you knew that already."
Parise chuckled. "I was wondering how long you could keep up the act, mon cher. I know when a man is under my spell - and when he isn't."
Dean snorted. "That is such crap - I'm just tired of playing this game." That was the truth; he'd watched the comings and goings of the camp all day long, gathered as much intel as he could, and no longer saw any tactical advantage to playing the spellbound submissive. He shot a glare at DaCoste. "From here on in, save your orders for your lapdog. I'm done."
Parise nodded at DaCoste, and he gave Sam a sharp kick to the sole of his injured foot.
Sam's pained yell elicited a loud, furious, "You son of a bitch," from Dean. He leapt to his feet, his fists full of DaCoste's shirt before he was even fully upright. Only the rifle jammed into his ribs stopped him from decking the man.
Parise's smile was now bemused. "I'd rethink your stance, Dean. There are plenty of ways to make the time until the ceremony very unpleasant, especially for Sam, without doing any real damage. So, why don't you just do as you're told, put on the shoes and come with us."
Dean let go of DaCoste's shirt, giving the man a shove as he did so, and stepped back. He jammed his feet into the deck shoes without ever breaking eye contact with DaCoste and held out a hand to help his brother get to his feet. "Sam? You up for this?"
"Let's just do it." Sam bit back a groan as he pulled the shoes onto his injured feet. "Besides…." He grabbed Dean's wrist. "I'm kinda ripe."
"Well, I wasn't gonna say anything…." Dean glanced down; Sam gave him a look and a small shrug that clearly said, 'Let's take the chance, dude. Maybe we'll see something we can use.'
Sam was not moving fast enough for DaCoste's liking. The guard grabbed him by the arm, right below the bullet wound and tried to forcefully yank him to his feet.
With Sam's agonized shout, Dean snapped. He spun and slammed his fist into DaCoste's jaw, knocking him to the floor and sending him tumbling toward the center post. He turned on the second guard but took a rifle butt to the temple, the blow dazing him, the impact knocking him to the ground at Sam's side.
Through blurred vision, Dean saw the guard raise the rifle for a second blow, but Sam grabbed the barrel one-handed, eyes flashing with fury as he wrestled with man for control.
"Don't even fucking think about it." There was a threatening growl to Sam's voice that surprised even Dean. Apparently his brother had also reached the end of his tether when it came to playing passive prisoner.
"Enough!" Parise stepped in front of the guard, pushing him away from the brothers. Her glare turned on DaCoste as he staggered to his feet. "Both of you, wait outside." She reached for Dean's face, his eye already starting to swell and blood trickling down his temple. He angrily batted away her hand. "Fine. Get yourselves on your feet and meet us outside. You have five minutes." She quickly crossed the peristyle and disappeared down the steps.
The moment she was gone, Sam turned to Dean. "Y'okay?"
"No." Dean screwed his eyes closed, his head muzzy from the blow. Sam said nothing, but Dean felt his brother's hand close around his upper arm in a silent show of support. He opened his eyes, blew out a breath and pushed himself to his feet. He staggered, more unsteady than he cared to admit, even to himself, but held out a hand to Sam. "Come on, let's get this over with."
"Roger that." Sam groaned as Dean hauled him to his feet, the sudden set of his jaw clearly stating that his feet were not yet ready to support the considerable weight now on them. Dean slipped his arm around Sam's back, while Sam threw his good arm over Dean's shoulders.
Sam snorted softly as they began moving toward the doorway. "Who's holding up who, huh?"
"Shut up."
The trek from the peristyle to the cabin was slow going, with Sam setting the pace, robotically putting one foot in front of the other. Still, they made it without incident, although Sam was a few shades paler and Dean's burgeoning black eye was beginning to impair his vision.
Entering the cabin, they were the center of attention. Preparations for the ceremony in the kitchen and living space ground to a halt, conversation giving way to silence as they passed through. Once inside the bedroom, Parise closed the door and motioned for Sam to hit the bathroom first.
He leaned more heavily on the furniture than Dean liked to see, but he made it under his own steam. Parise stopped him at the door with one final instruction. "Be sure to wash your hair."
Sam just closed the door and Dean rolled his eyes but, yeah, that was part of the whole Voodoo ritual, too - a do-it-yourself version of the lave tete, or washing of the head, before a planned possession.
Ten minutes later, Sam emerged wearing a clean pair of white pants, his wet hair brushed back off his face and the bandage missing from his arm. The skin was bruised around the stitches but there was no longer any visible sign of infection.
"Dean." Parise motioned with her head toward the now vacant bathroom, as she placed a fresh towel and a clean pair of pants on the counter.
Dean cut her off as she started to speak. "Yeah, yeah, I know - don't forget the shampoo. Got anything with extra conditioner? This bayou heat makes me all frizzy." He slammed the door in her face before she could answer.
He stripped quickly and turned on the water, but once he stepped under the shower, he started to shake. It was anger, it was frustration - it was fear….
All the way from the peristyle to the cabin he'd had his eyes peeled for any opening to take advantage of, any way they could move up their escape attempt to well before the ceremony. He didn't want to be part of it any more than Sam did, but there was nothing. Not a damn thing. His brother had caught Ti-Jean's men with their pants down once; this time, they'd made damn sure the compound was firmly zipped up. There were armed guards along the trail, guards in the clearing between the cabin and the garage, and even guards along the long, gravel driveway that led to the road. Hell, there were even guards along the river now - although more to keep the gators in than the brothers out.
It was déjà vu all over again as Dean curled his fingers into a fist and channeled all his anger and frustration into punching the wall, slamming his fist into the tiles three, five, seven… he lost count how many times. He stopped only when his knuckles were bloody, fresh cuts joining the reopened gash from the motel room. Then he shut off the hot tap, letting the stinging needles of ice cold water cool his temper, steel his nerves and help him regain control. When he pulled open the bathroom door minutes later, his mask was firmly back in place.
Sam was sitting on the end of the bed as Parise taped closed a fresh bandage on his arm. She kept working as Dean emerged. "It sounded like there was a fight in there."
She looked up when Dean said nothing. "Whatever. Let's go."
The walk back was uneventful, although Dean was still scanning every person, every building, every tree looking for any possible advantage, anything to help with an escape. He saw nothing of use.
At the peristyle Parise motioned for them to retake their places on the sheet. Settling beside his brother, Dean noted the relief of Sam's face now he was no longer on his feet.
Parise held out her hands. "Shoes."
Dean looked up at her in disbelief. "You have got to be fucking kidding me. Where the hell are we gonna go?"
Parise didn't move.
Dean rolled his eyes and yanked off the loafers, slamming them into the mambo's hands. Sam did the same. Once she had the shoes, she turned and left without saying another word.
A priestess came up the steps right after the mambo left, giving the brothers each a bowl of hot chicken, rice and vegetables, and a spoon to eat with - no damn knives or forks. Then, they were left alone.
Sam nodded in approval after trying the food. "Gotta say, they feed us better than anyone else who's ever kidnapped us. Although it kinda feels like fattening the lambs for slaughter, you know?"
"Yeah." Dean, strangely, was the one with no appetite. "They don't give a crap about us, they're just taking care of the meatsuits that'll host their damn loa." He shoved aside the bowl of food. "Look, we know what's gonna go down, we just don't know how. But first chance we get, we gotta take it. Right?"
Sam frowned, the spoon stopping halfway his mouth. "Right. If you're closest, you'll do it, if I am, I will. Where you going with this?"
Dean scrubbed a hand down his face. "If one of us is screwed… if it's too late, the other's still gotta make a break for it."
Sam dropped his spoon into the dish. "Translation, if you go down, I'm supposed to run and leave you behind. You gonna make me the same promise if they take me down first?" When Dean didn't answer, he snorted. "Thought so. So let's just make sure both of us get the hell out, alright?"
Dean almost smiled at that. Almost.
The sun had gone down the next time they saw DaCoste. He strode into the peristyle with two men and a priestess in tow. He said nothing but motioned with his rifle for the brothers to get up. When they did, one of the men grabbed Sam's arms, pulled them in front of him and bound his wrists with leather rope.
Dean's jaw clenched at the pained grunt the rough handling elicited from Sam and glared at DaCoste. As the man with the rope moved over to Dean, Dean raised his arms, crossing his wrists. DaCoste smirked as his partner grabbed Dean's arm, spun him around and pulled his arms behind him, fastening his wrists behind his back. Fuck. That added another wrinkle to their escape plan. He winced as the rope was tightened, the leather biting into his skin.
The priestess gathered up their dishes, folded the sheet and redistributed the candles around the peristyle. Then she set about lighting every candle in the place until it was filled with a warm, yellow glow. Outside in the gray light of dusk, the moon was just beginning to climb over the tree line on the far river bank.
DaCoste's smirk was still in place as he nodded at the brothers. "It's time."
Continued in Chapter 5
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.
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
Link back to Chapter 4a Here.
In the harsh light of day, Dean wasn't feeling quite so confident.
He'd had too much time to think about everything that could possibly go wrong.
Sam had eventually drifted off, despite his best efforts to fight the pull of sleep. The sound of hammering and muted voices woke him after only a couple of hours as workers had shown up at dawn to begin pulling off the boards that covered the upper half of each wall of the shack. The door and window were soon gone, too, leaving the roof held up by the four corner posts and the tall center column. None of this came as a surprise; peristyles were usually open-air structures. Those directly involved with the ceremony stayed under the roof, while the Bo followers gathered around the outside of the building to watch the proceedings.
Parise and Carrie returned a few hours after the workers. They changed the bandage on Sam's arm, removed the bandages from his feet, only applying salve rather than replacing the dressings, and left a bowl of fruit and bread and fresh bottles of water as breakfast.
Since then, the brothers had had little time to themselves. Junior priestesses came and went throughout the day, bringing fresh flowers and sweets for Erzulie's altar, garlands of flowers to wrap around each post and other ceremonial items. Two men showed up with drums, placing them just to the right of Kalfou's altar. The veve artist returned, tweaking and tidying his work - but if he noticed a significant drop in the amount of gunpowder it contained, he gave no sign. Still more workers set the large campfire in front of the peristyle while DaCoste and his armed men patrolled the bank of the bayou to keep the alligators at bay.
Dean studied Sam. He seemed steadier, stronger than the night before - at least the forced rest had had that one benefit. The flush of fever was gone and he was now more pissed than in pain. Still, he was a long way from being ready to fight his way out of the camp.
Sam seemed to read his mind. "I want outta here, Dean. Whatever it takes, I'm up for it."
Yeah, the mind was willing but the body needed a few more days rest to back it up.
Sam waited until DaCoste had turned away from the peristyle. "What about you? Any aftertaste from Parise's hex?"
Dean reflexively curled his fists. "I'm back in the driver's seat - one hundred per cent."
Sam still seemed worried. "How long does the Jimson Weed last?"
"Good question." Dean could only offer a small shrug. "Let's hope it's long enough."
Half-way through the afternoon, Parise showed up with DaCoste and another armed man in tow, and dropped a pair of pull-on canvas loafers in front of each brother. "Put those on."
Sam picked up a shoe and scowled at the mambo. "Why?"
Parise huffed impatiently. "Because, to be blunt, you stink. You need to bathe before the ceremony. Erzulie demands it. Now, I can have DaCoste toss you in the bayou, and you can take your chances with the alligators, or you can come up to the cabin and shower there. The choice is yours."
"Turn the stars of this shindig into gator bait hours before the show is set to open?" Dean turned slowly toward her, a dangerous smile spreading across his face. "Kind of an empty threat, don't you think?"
Parise returned the smile in kind. "And the caged lion bares his teeth."
"Oh, I have quite a bite." Dean winked at her. "Course, you knew that already."
Parise chuckled. "I was wondering how long you could keep up the act, mon cher. I know when a man is under my spell - and when he isn't."
Dean snorted. "That is such crap - I'm just tired of playing this game." That was the truth; he'd watched the comings and goings of the camp all day long, gathered as much intel as he could, and no longer saw any tactical advantage to playing the spellbound submissive. He shot a glare at DaCoste. "From here on in, save your orders for your lapdog. I'm done."
Parise nodded at DaCoste, and he gave Sam a sharp kick to the sole of his injured foot.
Sam's pained yell elicited a loud, furious, "You son of a bitch," from Dean. He leapt to his feet, his fists full of DaCoste's shirt before he was even fully upright. Only the rifle jammed into his ribs stopped him from decking the man.
Parise's smile was now bemused. "I'd rethink your stance, Dean. There are plenty of ways to make the time until the ceremony very unpleasant, especially for Sam, without doing any real damage. So, why don't you just do as you're told, put on the shoes and come with us."
Dean let go of DaCoste's shirt, giving the man a shove as he did so, and stepped back. He jammed his feet into the deck shoes without ever breaking eye contact with DaCoste and held out a hand to help his brother get to his feet. "Sam? You up for this?"
"Let's just do it." Sam bit back a groan as he pulled the shoes onto his injured feet. "Besides…." He grabbed Dean's wrist. "I'm kinda ripe."
"Well, I wasn't gonna say anything…." Dean glanced down; Sam gave him a look and a small shrug that clearly said, 'Let's take the chance, dude. Maybe we'll see something we can use.'
Sam was not moving fast enough for DaCoste's liking. The guard grabbed him by the arm, right below the bullet wound and tried to forcefully yank him to his feet.
With Sam's agonized shout, Dean snapped. He spun and slammed his fist into DaCoste's jaw, knocking him to the floor and sending him tumbling toward the center post. He turned on the second guard but took a rifle butt to the temple, the blow dazing him, the impact knocking him to the ground at Sam's side.
Through blurred vision, Dean saw the guard raise the rifle for a second blow, but Sam grabbed the barrel one-handed, eyes flashing with fury as he wrestled with man for control.
"Don't even fucking think about it." There was a threatening growl to Sam's voice that surprised even Dean. Apparently his brother had also reached the end of his tether when it came to playing passive prisoner.
"Enough!" Parise stepped in front of the guard, pushing him away from the brothers. Her glare turned on DaCoste as he staggered to his feet. "Both of you, wait outside." She reached for Dean's face, his eye already starting to swell and blood trickling down his temple. He angrily batted away her hand. "Fine. Get yourselves on your feet and meet us outside. You have five minutes." She quickly crossed the peristyle and disappeared down the steps.
The moment she was gone, Sam turned to Dean. "Y'okay?"
"No." Dean screwed his eyes closed, his head muzzy from the blow. Sam said nothing, but Dean felt his brother's hand close around his upper arm in a silent show of support. He opened his eyes, blew out a breath and pushed himself to his feet. He staggered, more unsteady than he cared to admit, even to himself, but held out a hand to Sam. "Come on, let's get this over with."
"Roger that." Sam groaned as Dean hauled him to his feet, the sudden set of his jaw clearly stating that his feet were not yet ready to support the considerable weight now on them. Dean slipped his arm around Sam's back, while Sam threw his good arm over Dean's shoulders.
Sam snorted softly as they began moving toward the doorway. "Who's holding up who, huh?"
"Shut up."
The trek from the peristyle to the cabin was slow going, with Sam setting the pace, robotically putting one foot in front of the other. Still, they made it without incident, although Sam was a few shades paler and Dean's burgeoning black eye was beginning to impair his vision.
Entering the cabin, they were the center of attention. Preparations for the ceremony in the kitchen and living space ground to a halt, conversation giving way to silence as they passed through. Once inside the bedroom, Parise closed the door and motioned for Sam to hit the bathroom first.
He leaned more heavily on the furniture than Dean liked to see, but he made it under his own steam. Parise stopped him at the door with one final instruction. "Be sure to wash your hair."
Sam just closed the door and Dean rolled his eyes but, yeah, that was part of the whole Voodoo ritual, too - a do-it-yourself version of the lave tete, or washing of the head, before a planned possession.
Ten minutes later, Sam emerged wearing a clean pair of white pants, his wet hair brushed back off his face and the bandage missing from his arm. The skin was bruised around the stitches but there was no longer any visible sign of infection.
"Dean." Parise motioned with her head toward the now vacant bathroom, as she placed a fresh towel and a clean pair of pants on the counter.
Dean cut her off as she started to speak. "Yeah, yeah, I know - don't forget the shampoo. Got anything with extra conditioner? This bayou heat makes me all frizzy." He slammed the door in her face before she could answer.
He stripped quickly and turned on the water, but once he stepped under the shower, he started to shake. It was anger, it was frustration - it was fear….
All the way from the peristyle to the cabin he'd had his eyes peeled for any opening to take advantage of, any way they could move up their escape attempt to well before the ceremony. He didn't want to be part of it any more than Sam did, but there was nothing. Not a damn thing. His brother had caught Ti-Jean's men with their pants down once; this time, they'd made damn sure the compound was firmly zipped up. There were armed guards along the trail, guards in the clearing between the cabin and the garage, and even guards along the long, gravel driveway that led to the road. Hell, there were even guards along the river now - although more to keep the gators in than the brothers out.
It was déjà vu all over again as Dean curled his fingers into a fist and channeled all his anger and frustration into punching the wall, slamming his fist into the tiles three, five, seven… he lost count how many times. He stopped only when his knuckles were bloody, fresh cuts joining the reopened gash from the motel room. Then he shut off the hot tap, letting the stinging needles of ice cold water cool his temper, steel his nerves and help him regain control. When he pulled open the bathroom door minutes later, his mask was firmly back in place.
Sam was sitting on the end of the bed as Parise taped closed a fresh bandage on his arm. She kept working as Dean emerged. "It sounded like there was a fight in there."
She looked up when Dean said nothing. "Whatever. Let's go."
The walk back was uneventful, although Dean was still scanning every person, every building, every tree looking for any possible advantage, anything to help with an escape. He saw nothing of use.
At the peristyle Parise motioned for them to retake their places on the sheet. Settling beside his brother, Dean noted the relief of Sam's face now he was no longer on his feet.
Parise held out her hands. "Shoes."
Dean looked up at her in disbelief. "You have got to be fucking kidding me. Where the hell are we gonna go?"
Parise didn't move.
Dean rolled his eyes and yanked off the loafers, slamming them into the mambo's hands. Sam did the same. Once she had the shoes, she turned and left without saying another word.
A priestess came up the steps right after the mambo left, giving the brothers each a bowl of hot chicken, rice and vegetables, and a spoon to eat with - no damn knives or forks. Then, they were left alone.
Sam nodded in approval after trying the food. "Gotta say, they feed us better than anyone else who's ever kidnapped us. Although it kinda feels like fattening the lambs for slaughter, you know?"
"Yeah." Dean, strangely, was the one with no appetite. "They don't give a crap about us, they're just taking care of the meatsuits that'll host their damn loa." He shoved aside the bowl of food. "Look, we know what's gonna go down, we just don't know how. But first chance we get, we gotta take it. Right?"
Sam frowned, the spoon stopping halfway his mouth. "Right. If you're closest, you'll do it, if I am, I will. Where you going with this?"
Dean scrubbed a hand down his face. "If one of us is screwed… if it's too late, the other's still gotta make a break for it."
Sam dropped his spoon into the dish. "Translation, if you go down, I'm supposed to run and leave you behind. You gonna make me the same promise if they take me down first?" When Dean didn't answer, he snorted. "Thought so. So let's just make sure both of us get the hell out, alright?"
Dean almost smiled at that. Almost.
The sun had gone down the next time they saw DaCoste. He strode into the peristyle with two men and a priestess in tow. He said nothing but motioned with his rifle for the brothers to get up. When they did, one of the men grabbed Sam's arms, pulled them in front of him and bound his wrists with leather rope.
Dean's jaw clenched at the pained grunt the rough handling elicited from Sam and glared at DaCoste. As the man with the rope moved over to Dean, Dean raised his arms, crossing his wrists. DaCoste smirked as his partner grabbed Dean's arm, spun him around and pulled his arms behind him, fastening his wrists behind his back. Fuck. That added another wrinkle to their escape plan. He winced as the rope was tightened, the leather biting into his skin.
The priestess gathered up their dishes, folded the sheet and redistributed the candles around the peristyle. Then she set about lighting every candle in the place until it was filled with a warm, yellow glow. Outside in the gray light of dusk, the moon was just beginning to climb over the tree line on the far river bank.
DaCoste's smirk was still in place as he nodded at the brothers. "It's time."
Continued in Chapter 5