And This Constant Forward Motion is Their Home: Part 3
My mother loves to tell me of the revolution in Haiti. She tells me that in 1791, our people rose up. They fought for twelve years against the french, led by a man named Vincent Ogé, and they won. And they were free. That is why there is so many of us in Nouvelle Orleans now.
She talks about some of the people in the revolution as if they are gods. And maybe their spirits are worshiped now. Toussaint, the governor from 1796 to 1802, fought for an independent San Domingo, and because of that he was captured in 1802, and taken to France, where he died. And a man named Rochambeau- a lieutenant who led the blacks to victory against the French. She talks about these men like she envies their power. But I don't know why. She is the hero of her time, the one who has brought liberty to her people.
She tells me this story when I am sick, as if it were a fairytale, and I believed for many years that it was. A beautiful retelling of when our people overcame the oppression in their lives. She tells the story as if that oppression were over. But it's not.
--
The cemetery that both Marie Laveaus are buried in is called the Saint Louis Cemetery No. 1.
Dean brings the Impala to a slow stop right outside the gates surrounding the top-side tombs. Neither of them make a move to get out of the car right away.
There is a plaque at the front of the gate that both boys, despite their sense of urgency, stop to read. Dean shines the flashlight on it.
Visitors are welcome but enter these premises at their own risk. No security nor guards are provided and the New Orleans Archdiocesan disclaims responsibility for the personal safety of visitors and their property.
"Oh, come on! Did they have to do that? Now it's just creepier than it was before." Dean makes a frustrated gesture and stalks through the gates, muttering about creepy fuckin' cemeteries and their creepy fuckin' disclaimers. Sam follows behind and rolls his eyes at Dean's back.
The cemetery is huge, and seems even bigger because of all of the alleyways and confusing rows of tombs. They all looked washed out and gray in the moonlight, crumbling pieces of statue and mold making the shadows look sinister. They get lost twice before they actually find the graves they are looking for. It's beautiful, huge and covered in bouquets and messages that pay tribute to the queen.
"C'mon, Sam, no more fuckin' plaques." Dean says when Sam shines his flashlight on the plaque in front of Marie Laveau the First's grave.
Marie Laveau.
This Greek Revival Tomb is reputed burial place of this Notorious "Voodoo Queen". A mystic cult, voodooism, of African origin, was brought to this city from Santa Domingo and flourished in 19th century. Marie Laveau was the most widely known of many practitioners of the cult.
Sam reads it out loud, but Dean isn't listening. He's picked up something from behind one of the pillars. A book- and when he shines the flashlight on it, he can see that it is old, and the paper attached to it says 'Samuel Winchester.'
--
My mother was a devout Christian. Let there be no doubt about that. Many of our people have found peace in the convergence of these two religions, have found many likenesses that allow them to practice what they believe and to stay out of the way of the hangman's cross at the same time. I understand how important it is to keep ourselves safe, but sometimes I feel as if the lines between Christianity and the true practice of our peoples are becoming blurred.
--
Dean crowds Sam out of there like they've got the devil on their tale. And for all either of them knows, maybe they have.
Neither of them say anything on the way back to the motel room. Sam doesn't open the journal. He doesn't even look at it. He just stares out the window with the damn thing rotting in his lap.
But finally, when they are back in the motel room, Dean switches on the light and Sam opens the journal with shaking, clammy hands.
--
I know that one day you will find this journal. I have seen it, boy. I have seen you. And even in my old years, when my children tell me I am senile, and I have lost much of the respect that comes with being the Vodou Queen of New Orleans, I know when the spirits need something from me.
--
"Holy shit, Dean."
--
My mother was a great woman. The world will remember her that way.
I will make sure of it.
--
Dean gets frustrated sometimes. And he gets really frustrated when they hit a dead end on a case.
Sam has been leafing through the journal all morning, trying to find clues about the girl. But nothing is fucking going their way.
"C'mon, Sylvia Brown. You're the one with the mind powers. You gettin' any weird vibes or mystical feelings over there?"
As damned good as he is, Dean can't dodge everything. And he's off his game, heat's got him all gummed up, right, so when Sam's smelliest shirt hits him in the face, it's really only cause he didn't feel like moving out of the way.
"Jesus, Sammy, don't nobody stank like you can stank."
"Shutup Dean."
--
Three hours later and Sam has finally found something he thinks might give him some answers. "Dean," he says, balling up a piece of paper and throwing it at his dozing brother. It hits Dean in the eye and he jumps, his hand jumping up to wipe the saliva off of his chin. "Nrgh- wha Sam?"
"I think... I think this is the woman from the journal. From-from my dream. I've been trying to find the other girl, but I think I found something about Marie. It was a helluva lot easier. She's really famous."
Dean perks up and sits forward, making an 'On with it, then' gesture.
"Not much is known to be fact about Marie Laveau. She is not just one woman, but two. Marie the Second was the daughter of the first Marie Laveau, and the legends circling around the lives of these two woman often confuse them as one."
"So what- you think you were dreamin' of the mom or the daughter?"
Sam shakes his head, his eyes still scanning the article. "I dunno. It says here they looked a lot alike, so for all I know it could be either one. But according to the journal, I would guess it's the daughter."
--
Another night passes and Dean is about ready to blow his top, and Sam hasn't found anything else that might point them in the direction of where they should go next.
But the divine bangs on the door of their room nearly two hours later, around three a.m. Embodied, she looks to be in her twenties, petite and beautiful. Her hair is the color of brick dust and her eyes shine too green to be human. She smells thickly of flowers and incense. The girl in front of them is sharing her body with something bigger than her though, something that makes the air around them hum and pulse with each beat of her heart.
Sam realizes it, panics, too late. "Dean- she's not-" herself. But she steps over the salt line without flinching and her smile twists up her face.
The girl is in trouble, she tells them, and Sam sees again the same girl he saw in the diner, but she's not dancing this time. This time she is sick and her life is falling out of her like she can't hold onto it. She will die soon, Erzulie says.
She is too open, too bright, a child born to invoke the spirits. It's been so long since one of these children has been born and the Gods are too restless, eager like dogs to be paid tribute to and to make themselves visible. The goddess snarls in disgust when she mentions her fellow deities. Every loa who catches her scent is taking their chance to ride her like she can take it. Her body cannot take this abuse. The girl is fifteen, and she is dying.
I am here, she says, I am here to tell you that it must stop.
"What're we supposed to do about it?" Dean asks, a little jaunty- chin up, respect for now but a shitstorm if you make a wrong move on him or his, cause he'll drop you no matter what crevice of Heaven or Hell you crawled out of, just the same as always. He sits back on his heels and stares at her.
You can figure it out boy, she hisses, Sam's not sure who he should be afraid for more. The girl is here, she says, and Sam's head burns white hot with the vision of a house with a crucifix on the door and brick dust lining the windows.
She's gone when he comes to and he's on the floor and Dean's hands are on his shoulders.
--
Dean decides they have to leave that night, scout out the territory before they make a solid move.
Of course, he doesn't plan on the old man that lives at the house to already be awake, waiting for them at four o' clock in the damn morning.
The old man's eyes are milky, but he looks strong, or like he was in his prime. He smiles a little at them and chuckles when they give each other panicked looks. But neither of the boys really see much choice in the matter, so they follow the old man into the house.
There's a line of rust colored brick dust along the doorway, set perfectly, and Sam eyes it a little nervously as they step through it. It shouldn't make him nervous- it's no different from what every hunter in their business knows- same idea as the salt. Keep the bad out. Keep the devils out. It makes his hands shake a little in his pockets, and he's nearly holding his breath, waiting to be stopped at the door.
He looks back at Dean, who winks at him and looks for all the world like he's right at home but Sam knows better- knows Dean's game face and when he's got it on. His shoulders are relaxed but his spine is straight and his hands never stray too far from his side holster, confident enough that he can draw and put anyone he needs to down before they can make two wrong moves.
The old man looks back at them and his milky eyes focus on Sam's fists clenched in the pockets of his sweatshirt. He chuckles, mutters something about 'Jumpy little youngsters...' and turns back around. He leads them through the old house and Sam actually has to duck to get through the kitchen doorway, nearly hits himself in the face with the dried herbs hanging in the doorways. A passing glance tells him there's Coriander, Dill, and Celandine. Sam looks back to catch Dean's eye and sees the recognition there. Protection of the home, of children.
The old man stops in front of a doorway located in the back of the house, and turns back to look at them one more time, his expression sober. He stares hard at them both for a long minute and just when Sam can feel Dean about to say something, about to crack a joke, the old man opens the door and steps through, gesturing for them to follow.
Sam feels his heart speed up a little. He can feel something beyond that door- something bound to the room, something powerful. He reaches his hand back and touches Dean's sleeved arm, feels a little better for it and knows Dean understands what he means. Careful.
"You okay Sammy?" He murmurs, and Sam nods, but he's lying. He's shaking in his boots, and he has no idea why.
There is a small twin bed situated in the corner of the room. And old woman is hunched over in a chair beside the bed, her hand on the forehead of the girl in the bed. Her gray hair is pulled back in a tight bun and the shawl on her shoulders is the only color in the room. There is a piece of cloth covering the window, and it has some sort of marking on it that Sam feels like he should recognize. There are pieces of angelica root stashed all over room- on the window sills, on the bed posts, even on the girl's pillow- and it makes the room smell sweet.
Sam steps closer to the bed, his heart beating loud and rapid in his ears.
"Dean-" The girl doesn't have the markings on her like she did in his vision. She doesn't look vibrant or alive at all. She's lost weight, her skin has taken on gray tones. But. "That's her, Dean. That's the girl."
And then Sam feels like he gets punched in the gut, hard, and nausea washes over him in one sudden move. He doubles over and closes his eyes. The old man and the woman stare at him, afraid, but never say a word. Sam's head feels like it's being split in half from the inside out and in the seconds before his vision starts, he wishes for darkness.
He sees Dean this time, smiling at him. But Dean disappears and leaves Sam in the dark. There are two spines, disconnected from their bodies, and they fit together, perfectly, interlocking.
Sam only loses a few seconds this time. When he becomes aware again, Dean is hanging onto him, his arm around Dean's shoulder, and they're making their way out of the house, with Dean practically dragging him through the front door.
"Dean- wait. The girl-" Sam slurs, feeling like he is underwater.
"Shut up Sam. We'll come back. Maybe a little more fucking prepared next time."
--
"Well, that wasn't exactly a successful mission, was it?" Sam says. Smart ass.
"Shut up Sam."
--
There's a warm hand on the back of his neck, thick fingers dry and chafing on the sensitive skin there. He's standing in water, clouds of dirt billowing up from the ground as he shuffles his feet, turning the water from clear to brown so that he can't see his legs anymore. The air is thick and heavy, humid, with trees and vines sprouting up from the water, roots visible on the heavy bay, thick rivulets of moss hanging from branches and floating in the swamp. Crickets buzz loudly in his ears. There are people standing on the bay all around him, but the hand on the back of his neck stops him from looking up to see more than their legs, and their hands, which hang down by their sides, holding small books with golden crosses on them.
"Hold your breath, boy." For a second, the priest isn't beside him, but behind- the breath of his words makes Sam's spine tremble as it brushes close to the back of his neck, close enough to touch, and the man at his back makes him feel more than unclean.
He can see the mouth, the jaw of the man who is standing beside him, with a burgundy stole draped across his shoulders, but he doesn't look to see more. The hand on his neck presses him down. His legs buckle despite the gentleness of the pressure, and it's only just then that he realizes that his legs feel weak, his knees shaking unsteadily in the water beneath him. He sucks in a breath, panicked for a second, and hears the priest speaking- at first Sam feels like the man is only in his ears, is whispering deadly fierce to him, but then his voice is louder, speaks to the people watching, and he knows they know what he is now. What he is.
"If anyone worships the Beast and his image and receives his mark on the forehead or the hand, he, too, will drink the wine of God's fury, which has been poured full strength into the cup of His wrath."
The water goes over his head- he doesn't think to actually fill his lungs with air- and the priest puts a hand on each of his shoulders to keep him under. The sun is shining through the water, and the silhouette of the man above him is dark and huge. He closes his eyes, because they sting, and he can still hear the blessed words, sharp and clear.
"He will be tormented with burning sulfur in the presence of the holy angels and of the Lamb. And the smoke of their torment rises for ever and ever. There is no rest day or night for those who worship the Beast and his image,"
The priest is gesturing wildly to the crowd on land, caught up in the passion of his words now. Sam can feel his words shaking the ground, vibrating through the water and into his bones. Sam's lungs start to ache, and the hands that still hold him down dig into his shoulders. He gasps, sucks in water, feels it fill him up inside, and wonders if this water is blessed. If it'll clean him up and out inside.
He can't breathe- he's drowning and the priest isn't the only one holding him down anymore. Can anyone save this sinner's soul? The Lake is on fire, burning him and swallowing up his tears, licking at his skin with hungry sounds, and he can smell Jessica in the water around him. She's floating in the water above him, alive and beautiful and she smiles at him, kisses him and he panics again when she passes her only breath to him. Her hair brushes his cheek and it is soft, sweet, like he remembers it is. He breathes deeply of her until Max's hands reach into the water and pull her up, away from him. He can't reach out to stop her leaving but he tries and he opens his mouth with her name in his throat but he can't scream. He tries.
"Or for anyone who receives the mark of his name."
The people on the bay echo what the priest is saying, caught up in the passion of the holy.
Baptism isn't going to save him.
They know what he is.
Max's blood and Jessica's blood turn the water pink around him, spreading in quick smoky clouds.
He's damned.
--
Sam gasps awake, tangled in his bed, and he's sure he's still drowning- still- Unholy.
He doesn't realize that the hands that are holding him back are his brother's until Dean's voice brings him home.
"... Breathe, Sammy. Breathe. You're okay. You're alright. Shit man. Jesus, Sammy." At Dean's urging he sits on the edge of the bed and puts his head between his knees. Blood drips from his nose onto the carpet, but the stain won't be noticed among all the others.
Dean lays a cold cloth on the back of his neck and hands him a wad of tissue for his nose. He sits down beside Sam and they both watch their last hours of sleep slipping away from them. The dark outside is lightening, bleached blue filtering in through the curtains.
--