FIC: Swear By All Flowers (SPN, Sam/Dean) (4/6)

[sweetestdrain]

PART FOUR: the tide is high and it's rising still

The next few moments happened in slow motion. First there was a shudder of earth, impact raising dirt and grit that made Sam blink hard, and the next thing Sam saw was Dean encased in huge, muddy talons. Sam let out a shocked grunt and grabbed for Dean's legs, but the house snatched him away like it was snatching a toy from a squalling toddler.

"Dean!"

The chicken-house gave Dean a brutal shake, and Sam saw Dean go limp. The house bent and contorted its legs, balancing on one foot in a hideously comical sight. Then it popped Dean inside the trapdoor that had been hidden on the house's underside.

Sam raised his gun and fired at the chicken-legs, hoping to incapacitate the house, but either he missed or the bullets just didn't phase it. Sam gave up on his gun and began running toward the nearest leg, thinking only grab on, find out where they're taking him, but the house simply took two long strides, then two more, and disappeared into the forest.

Sam paused for a moment, his heart pounding in his throat, and then took off running again. His own legs were all but useless next to the house's easy, graceful speed, but Sam didn't care. He kept going.

*

Dean didn't know how long he had blacked out, but he knew he woke up when the damn chicken sent him tumbling straight into the far interior wall of Baba Yaga's house. He slammed into the wall hard and heard his shoulder give a pop. The trapdoor snapped shut behind him.

He heard a faraway scream, a sound that made goosebumps pop up on his arms, and it took him a moment to realize that it was Sam.

Dean got his legs under him and curled up on the floor, fetal-position style, resting his forehead on the floor. The wood was polished clean and cool against Dean's face. He took a ragged breath, tried not to think of the noise Sam had made. Sammy would be okay. He had to be okay.

As far as Dean could tell, he was in some sort of basement. Which was kind of odd, because from the outside he could have sworn the house didn't have a basement. The floorboards above him creaked. Dean guessed that Baba Yaga was about to come check on her soon-to-be-dinner, and he cast an uneasy glance at the crooked stairs in the corner and curled his arms around his stomach, wondering if he should even try to fight.

After a few seconds spent lying there, waiting, he thought of Sam again.

"Goddamn, what is wrong with you, you fucker?" Dean muttered to himself, and he got up, beginning to search the basement for anything that was pointy, blunt, or otherwise weapon-y.

Dean wasn't going to go out without a fight, not when Sam was still out there counting on him.

*

When Sam came stumbling out of the forest, his face scratched and his feet blistered, it felt uncomfortably like surrender.

He looked back at the dark trees, the darker trees beyond that, and tried to think of whether the books he'd been looking through had any references to a permanent nesting place, or a homestead to which Baba Yaga - any of them - might return.

Sam slid a shaking hand over his forehead, trying to get his hair out of his eyes. He couldn't remember. He couldn't fucking remember, and his brother might already be dead and in a fucking stew somewhere.

His knees buckled, throat burning, and Sam coughed and puked into the grass for a good five minutes, trying not to think of what the Baba Yagas could be doing to Dean right now.

Then Sam urged himself up, walked slowly over to the Impala, and broke speed limits all the way to the Livonia library.

*

When Baba Yaga came down the stairs, Dean was ready. And he was armed. Really, who just left a shovel lying around if they didn't expect to get hit with it?

He swung the shovel at Baba Yaga's head with all his might, and the clang of contact jarred his arms and sent a jolt of pain through his injured shoulder. The bitch didn't even wince, just turned and gave him the evil eye.

"Shall I eat you at once, child?" she said raspily, raising an eyebrow at the shovel. "Or should I save some of you for later? Later, later the meat will be less tender, but what a shame to gobble you up and then gone. All gone!"

Dean snarled at her and tossed the shovel aside. "I get a preference? Just fucking get it over with."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "So eager to be meat?"

"So eager to choke and die on me, bitch?"

Baba Yaga narrowed her eyes and pointed at the stairs. "We will see, see. First, first I have a task for you, boy."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "A 'task'? You know, you're really not my type."

*

It only occurred to Sam after he entered the library that he probably should have stopped to change clothes and take a shower first. He was sweaty, streaked with mud, and had tiny stinging scratches all over his arms and face from running into patches of brambles and unforgiving branches.

"Are you okay, Sam?" called Heather. She and the other woman behind the desk were eying Sam warily, but Heather sounded genuinely concerned, and Sam had to swallow back the sudden urge to sit down and just soak in their friendly presence. He couldn't, though; they were civilians, and for a second, Sam's awareness of how very different he was from them burned almost as badly as Dean's absence.

"Yeah," said Sam. His voice cracked and he cleared his throat. "Sorry, I was just out in the park and I took a tumble. I meant to go clean up, but I wanted to get here before you guys closed." He tried tossing a sheepish grin on top of it all, and it seemed to work.

Heather pointed toward the back. "The bathrooms are back there, if you need to wash up. And... we have a first aid kit, if you need it."

"Thanks," said Sam, and took the first aid kit from Heather's outstretched hand.

*

Dean couldn't tell how long the house walked before coming to rest. All he knew was that the room tipped one way, then another, and then came to a shuddering halt that shook the floor and threw Dean off his feet.

Baba Yaga came down to get him, her bare feet pattering on the steps. "We are home," she said proudly. "We have been traveling, were traveling for weeks before we found you, but now we are home. Come and see."

She took Dean by the elbow, sharp fingernails pricking his skin, and led him up the stairs. The main room of the house was not quite the evil lair that Dean had expected; the walls were painted a cheery yellow, and he even spotted a few needlepoint samplers hanging on the walls. At first glance it could have been any old-fashioned country home.

The sight of the huge oven along one wall, however, laid that image to rest. It was antique and made of a heavy black metal, looking like something straight out of Hansel and Gretel. That was probably where they cooked their lunch - in this case, Dean. Well, that was just great.

Baba Yaga didn't let Dean look around for long, and after a moment she gave him a sharp tug toward the door. Dean got a brief glimpse of some dishes hanging over the sink, glistening with soap and orbiting slowly in the air like they were washing themselves, and then he was forced outside.

The house was resting on the ground, no legs in sight. Instead, Dean was greeted by an orderly little yard that looked very out of place in its deeply forested surroundings. A little gravel walkway led up to the door, bracketed by tiny pots of geraniums. There was a fence surrounding the yard, a tall, knobby wooden fence with sharp spikes. Ten of the fence spikes were taller than the others, and they had objects impaled on them that looked like shriveled gourds. As they drew closer, Dean could see they weren't gourds at all - they were human heads, shrunken and old.

"Man, you're one sick bitch," said Dean. Once Dean looked more closely, he could tell that the rest of the fence wasn't wood at all. It was pale, bleached bone.

"Yes, yes." Baba Yaga dragged Dean through the grisly fence gate, her bony hand digging hard into Dean's wrist. "Here, here is your task."

Dean blinked, but the sight was still there: a stable, sitting in the middle of the woods next to Baba Yaga's house. Dean tried to remember if he and Sam had seen anything about a freaking stable in their research, but nothing came to him. Was that where Baba Yaga kept her mortar and pestle?

Baba Yaga finally let go of Dean to open the stable doors, and he tried to rub the feeling back into his wrists. Damn bitch made his skin crawl. She swung the stable doors open, and a gust of putrid air hit Dean right in the face, making him flinch.

Well, Dean thought, now he was both figuratively and literally in a pile of shit.

He took a cautious step into the stable, hearing the muck and crap squelch under his boots. There was a faint whinny from one of the far stalls, and he could hear hooves impatiently thump the wall.

There was crap everywhere, sludgy and ankle-deep in the shallowest spots. It looked like nobody had cleaned the stalls for a long time, and it made Dean wonder if chores were only completed by the poor suckers the Baba Yagas happened to catch.

Dean had to breathe through his mouth carefully so he wouldn't gag on the stinking air. He felt a moment's pang for whatever horses or hellbeasts they kept in here; all that filth couldn't be good for them.

Dean's mind ticked over to something else that Baba Yaga had said.

"Wait," said Dean, "I'm supposed to have all this crap shoveled by when?"

"By the morning," said Baba Yaga. "We rise at dawn. If you do well, maybe we will not kill you tomorrow."

Great, they were going all Arabian Nights on Dean's ass.

"But the day after that I'm dead meat, huh? You're just screwing with me." Dean kicked at a particularly thick clod of crap. "It's impossible to get this place clean in a day. Since there's no way I can win this game, you might as well just eat me now and spare me the Nickelodeon slime fest."

Baba Yaga only chuckled and scurried away. Dean had the feeling she'd know if he tried to make a run for it.

Dean surveyed the stables. "Well," he said. "Shit." He might as well give it a shot; if by some wacky chance Baba Yaga was telling the truth, even just one extra day of life would give Dean more time to figure out a way back to Sam. "

He tested his shoulder, wondering if it was dislocated. It didn't seem like it was, but it hurt like hell whenever Dean moved it.

"Oh, this is going to be just peachy," Dean muttered, and he grabbed a shovel.

*

After Sam had cleaned off the worst of the dirt and put band-aids over some of the larger scrapes on his arms, he emerged from the bathroom and handed the first-aid kit back to the other woman at the counter.

"Sorry," he said, pulling on a sheepish expression. "I didn't mean to cause a scene, I just - my paper's due tomorrow, and I was freaking out about the deadline and wasn't even thinking. Last-minute research, you know."

The woman nodded, some of the suspicion in her look easing. "I know how that is," she said.

"I don't even know your name," said Sam. "I'm Sam."

"Sunny." Sunny - whose parents had apparently been hippies - nodded at him. Sam gave her a smile and a nod, and then left the counter and made his way over to the section on Russian folklore.

He piled up every book he and Dean had looked at the day before, and a few more besides. There had to be something Sam had missed.

After forty minutes of searching, Sam still hadn't had any luck in finding out where Baba Yaga liked to roost. He'd found variations on the same old tales: the invisible helpers, the three horses and riders (which still gave Sam pause - made him think about dreams that might be visions), the mortar and pestle, the fence full of the severed heads of passing heroes. He knew how Vasilissa and Prince Ivan had outsmarted Baba Yaga in the old tales, but none of that would help him now, here, at Hemlock Lake.

Sam wondered if he should just go out into the woods and say "Baba Yaga" three times, like Beetlejuice. Maybe one of them would just pop up.

He rubbed his eyes and went to ask Heather if she had any Advil. His head was throbbing and he couldn't concentrate, and if Sam couldn't get his act together, Dean was fucked. As Sam approached the desk, he could hear Heather and Sunny talking in quiet, cheerful voices.

"No, that volume was checked out by that Timmy Richardson boy last week. You remember him?" Sunny knotted her long hair at the base of her neck to keep it out of her face.

"Timmy... wasn't he the boy whose friends died out by Hemlock?" Heather shook her head. "Poor kid."

Sam stopped in his tracks, listening intently.

"He and his parents just moved back from New York," Sunny said. "He's nice - a bit odd, but nice."

A kid from New York, who had known the victims in the forest?

"Excuse me," said Sam, coming up to the desk. "But, uh, do you know where I could find this Timothy?"

*

Dean's arms were aching so hard he thought they might fall off. Night was coming on fast, and Dean had only managed to clear two stalls of the ten. It didn't help that the handle of the shovel had broken off, and there was a large rusted hole in the bottom of the only wheelbarrow. What use was a wheelbarrow with a hole in it, except to drive Dean up the fucking wall?

"Motherfuck," gasped Dean, and he leaned against the door to an empty stall to catch his breath. Well, whatever. The most that the three Baba Yagas could do was eat him, and Dean was already pretty sure that would happen one way or another.

The horse in the end stall banged against the wall again, letting out an impatient neigh.

Dean shook his head. "Sorry, dude, I'm beat. I'll get yours in a minute." He stopped, asked himself why the hell he was talking to a horse.

"Why the hell am I talking to a horse?" Dean asked the horse. He paused. "And how do you expect me to get in there, anyway? You'll probably stomp on me and eat my face."

The horse made an indignant noise.

"Great," Dean said to himself. "Either I'm talking to myself, or I'm talking to Mr. freaking Ed."

Dean heaved a sigh and approached the stall, eying the horse over the top of the door. The horse was huge and black, so dark that Dean could hardly tell him from the shadows. He touched the door, wishing he had an apple or something to help him make friends with the thing. Dean was rather fond of his face and kinda wanted to keep it.

The horse's ears flicked, and its hooves pawed at the muck in its stall.

"I'm not gonna let you out," said Dean, "So you might as well get that out of your head. Remember what I said about the stomping and the face-eating? Not my idea of a good time."

He paused. "Of course, a hot chick in stilettos could probably get away with it. But you, my friend, are not a hot chick in stilettos. Not that I'd be too surprised if you used to be, what with that ol' bitch hanging around, but I'm just saying it's unlikely."

Dean could almost swear the horse laughed.

"Fuck it," said Dean, and opened the stall door.

There was nothing there.

Dean blinked, then turned, and the horse - no, stallion - was standing next to him. It towered over Dean, all gleaming black mane and thick, lithe muscle. Its eyes regarded Dean curiously, and it gave Dean a forceful nudge with its huge nose.

"It may surprise you to hear that I actually don't like horses," said Dean, taking a step back. "Cowboys, sure, they were pretty cool, but I was never one for actual horse riding. Sammy got all the girly horse-loving genes in the family."

The stallion took a step closer, until it was almost standing on top of Dean.

"Now, Sammy," Dean said, trying to hide the fact that he was scared shitless. Damn, he hated horses. "Sammy asked for a pony for his birthday when he turned nine. We were still living out of motels. I thought Dad was gonna piss himself laughing."

Another chuffing noise that sounded like a chuckle, and the stallion turned, its tail flicking lightly into Dean's face. He blinked, startled, and when he opened his eyes the horse was gone again.

And along with the horse, so was all of the muck.

Dean poked at the floor with his shovel, but it hadn't just turned invisible - all of the horse shit really was gone, just like that. The floor was back to bare wood beneath Dean's feet, clean and unblemished. There was a pile of sweet-smelling hay in the corner that Dean could swear hadn't been there before.

"I take it back," Dean said wonderingly. "Horses are awesome."

Night had fallen with the departure of the black horse, so Dean filled all the stalls with fresh hay and made a makeshift bed in one of them. Dean figured that Baba Yaga might put him on a spit for letting her fancy magical horse escape, but if she did, Dean was sure as hell going to get some sleep first.

Dean curled up awkwardly in the hay, his abused shoulder giving another twinge, and fell asleep almost immediately. He dreamed of running through the woods, and the black stallion, running alongside him, wordlessly urging Dean to climb on and ride.

*

"Hey," called Sam. School should have let out hours ago, but apparently this kid had a lot of extracurriculars. "You Timmy Richardson?"

Timmy Richardson, a skinny, pale guy with bright red hair, stopped on his way across the schoolyard and gave Sam a completely befuddled look. "Uh... yeah, I'm Timothy."

"Timothy, then," Sam corrected smoothly. "You got time to answer a few questions, Timothy?"

The kid approached him warily. "You got a warrant?"

Sam blinked. "A warrant? Uh, look, kid, I don't really need to have a warrant to ask you a few questions."

Timothy shrugged. "It's just what they say on TV. You a cop, then?"

"Detective Anderson, at your service," said Sam. "Can we sit down?"

Timothy nodded and sat down right on the concrete, legs crossed Indian-style. After a beat, Sam followed suit. There were a couple other students milling around who gave them odd looks, but both Sam and the kid ignored them.

"Is this about Kevin and Mike?" Timothy asked. "Cause the cops already came to our school to ask people stuff."

"It is about Kevin and Mike," said Sam, "And Cody, too. Some additional evidence has come up, and we just wanted to verify some of the facts you gave us."

The kid looked nervous. Good. That would make the intimidation techniques work better. "What kind of additional evidence?"

Sam pulled a plastic sandwich bag from his pocket and tossed it to Timothy. "We think we may have found Cody's body."

The bone in the baggie was thick enough that it could pass for a human finger bone. If there was bad lighting, and you'd never actually seen a finger bone. Or the inside of a chicken. Sam was counting on both.

Timothy caught the baggie and squinted at the grisly contents. "That's a chicken bone," he said. He shrugged carelessly at Sam and tossed the bone back. "I'm going to be majoring in biology at NYU next year. I want to be a doctor. Also, Cody's not dead."

Sam blinked. "How would you know? Cody was reported missing. Last seen near Hemlock Lake."

"Well, yeah," said Timothy. "Because that's what I told the cops. But Cody's fine. He ran away from home to be with his boyfriend. I got a postcard from him last week, he's living in Jersey. Who are you, anyway?"

"I told you," said Sam. "I'm -"

"You're not a cop," said Timothy. "I can tell. I wouldn't have told you about Cody if you were a cop. Why are you talking to me?"

"Because I need you to tell me two things," Sam told him. "First, why you sent them out there. And second, how I can find her."

Timothy looked startled. "What?"

"You got two boys killed. You knew what a danger those witches were. Did you just get a kick out of -" Sam's voice was starting to shake, but he stopped, took a breath, and slipped easily back into his smooth detective persona. Sure, the kid didn't buy it, but it was a comfort for Sam. It helped him not think about Dean and the sounds of bone crunching.

"Tell me, Timmy, why'd you do it? Were they being tough on you in school? You thought maybe this would be a good way to get them in trouble, get them to leave you alone?"

"No! I didn't." Timothy shook his head fiercely. "I didn't, okay? It wasn't like that. I - I told Kevin. That's all. And he knew all the rules. He was safe."

"Kevin ended up floating facedown in Hemlock Lake. I wouldn't say that was 'safe'."

Timothy blanched, finally showing a crack in his wiseass veneer. "Look, I'm sorry about that. He was safe with her. But - sometimes, when they tell you things you - that you don't really want to know -"

Sam remembered what Baba Yaga had said to him, his fury, his helplessness, and he conceded the point with a nod. "But that doesn't explain Mike," he said. "Why tell Mike about her?"

"I didn't," Timothy hissed. He looked shaken. "I haven't told anyone about them since Kevin, and after what happened to Mike, I would never tell anyone again. Never. But Mike - he was listening, he overheard us. He went to meet them and he didn't take an offering, he didn't even..."

Timothy trailed off, swallowing hard and wiping his nose on his sleeve. Damn. Sam really hadn't wanted to feel sorry for this idiot kid.

"Listen," said Sam. "Okay. Whatever. I don't care. Promise never to do it again." He took a breath. "But this is important. I need to find her."

"What?" Timothy looked genuinely shocked. "No way. I just told you, I'm not telling anyone else how to find her! Anyway, I don't even know how to find her. You can't find her unless she wants you to."

"I've already found her once," said Sam. "And the bitch has my brother. So just tell me where she lives."

Timothy stared at him.

"Why are you looking at me like that," Sam said.

"Your name wouldn't happen to be Sam Winchester, would it?"

Sam froze, but Timothy took his silence as a 'yes,' and began to rummage through his backpack.

"She told me that someone would come asking," said Timothy, "And that I would know who it was because they would be somebody's brother. And, you know, it didn't make much sense at the time - but nothing she says really does, you know, not until it's happening, and then, it's like, you just know, you know?"

Sam could only watch as Timothy extracted a dusty, mildewed, ancient-looking book from his overstuffed backpack. The book was black with a faded design on its cover, and it was encircled several times with crumbling rubber bands.

"And she told me that when I met you, I should give you this," Timothy finished. "She said that it would answer your question."

"Which one?" said Sam weakly, but he reached out, he took the book from Timothy's hands, he took the book.

It was light in Sam's hands, much lighter than he would have expected an answer to be.

*

Baba Yaga said nothing about the missing horse, just looked around the stables, clucking her tongue in disapproval. Finally, she nodded.

"Good," she said begrudgingly. "You had help, boy, that is obvious, but it is good."

"Slinging shit," said Dean. "Who knew? I must've missed my calling."

"You will live," said Baba Yaga. "At least, for today. I have your next task."

And so, on the second day, Baba Yaga ordered Dean to find a needle in a haystack. An actual needle in an actual haystack.

Dean wondered if that was even supposed to be difficult, and the minute that Baba Yaga left, he flipped open his lighter to set the haystack on fire. Once the straw had burned away, he should have a lot less difficulty finding the fucking needle.

Except for one thing. The straw wouldn't catch fire.

"Great," muttered Dean. "She's invented flame-retardant hay. That's just freaking splendid."

Dean cursed at his lighter, then heard a small squeak. Looking down, he saw a tiny mouse, about the size of his thumb, covered in soft gray fur. It didn't seem to be scared of Dean's feet; in fact, it was sniffing around Dean's toes like a really, really small dog. If it hadn't been a rodent, it would have been wagging its tail.

Dean narrowed his eyes. There was something really weird about all of Baba Yaga's animals.

"Hey, little guy," Dean said. He nudged the mouse with his foot. "I really don't want to have to stomp you."

The mouse made a little squeak noise and looked up at Dean accusingly. Huh.

Dean stopped for just a moment to contemplate the craziness of what he was about to do, then plunged ahead. Hell, the whole place was one long acid trip, anyway. All that mattered was that he got back to Sam. And if Dean had to strike up deals with a few mice along the way, so be it.

Dean hunched down, peering closely at the little mouse. It looked up at him quizzically.

"Hey, little mouse dude," said Dean. "Uh. You want some candy?"

Dean mentally went through his pockets. He was pretty sure he had at least two melted peanut M&Ms in the pocket of his jeans that had escaped from the little bag he'd stuffed in there a few days ago. He might also have a cellophane-wrapped peppermint left over from the last decent restaurant that he and Sam had gone to, a steakhouse somewhere in Ohio.

"I have some M&Ms," Dean told the mouse. "Tons of chocolatey goodness. With peanuts. And they're yours, if you give me a hand."

The mouse seemed to raise an eyebrow at him.

"I'm not lying, I swear," said Dean. "Of course, I am a lunatic who's talking to a rat. But that's not the point. There's a needle in that haystack, and I need it, because Ms. Yaga's a sadistic bitch. Can you find it for me?"

After an unsettling length of time, the mouse did some kind of jerky, sideways shuffle, and bounded into the haystack. Dean stared at where it had disappeared, shook his head, and settled down to wait.

Dean was dozing when the mouse came back out two hours later, a thin sliver of metal glinting in its mouth. Dean was tempted to reconsider his self-diagnosis of complete insanity, but only a little bit. After all, just because a mouse helps you find a needle in a haystack doesn't mean you weren't insane for talking to said mouse to begin with.

"Here you go," and Dean handed the M&Ms to the mouse, which moved its head in an imitation of a nod before shoving the M&Ms in its cheeks.

The M&Ms seemed to expand in the mouse's cheeks, soft gray skin rippling and swelling. Dean took a step back, watched as the mouse's body bulged, until suddenly the mouse was the size of a small toddler - then larger. Dean heard bones pop into a new alignment, watched as fur was replaced by fresh pink skin.

When the girl blinked up at Dean, fully human and completely naked, Dean realized that he really wasn't surprised.

"Uh, hi," said Dean. "You been here a while?"

The girl smiled at him like she wasn't used to it. She couldn't have been much older than sixteen. Her dark eyes crinkled up at the corners, her chapped lips stretched awkwardly back from her teeth.

"Th-thank," she said. She paused and cleared her throat. "Thank you. Yes. It... has been a long time."

"Don't worry," Dean told her. "We'll get out of this place soon and get you back to your folks. What's your name?"

"Elizabeth," the girl said, eyes wide. "My name is Elizabeth."

"Nice to meet you, Elizabeth." Dean stretched out a hand to help her up, but Elizabeth froze, staring into the distance. Dean turned around, expecting to find Baba Yaga behind him, but there was nothing.

When he turned back, the girl hadn't moved, but she had turned gray and lifeless. She was still staring. Her skin crumbled under Dean's fingers as he felt for her pulse.

"Damn," said Dean quietly. "Damn."

Dean's touch had destroyed the illusion of solidity; Elizabeth's body disintegrated quickly, like a hollow flare of ash, leaving nothing behind but a small pile of dust. She must have been trapped as that mouse for decades. Maybe even centuries.

The needle lay next to the dusty outline, tarnished but shining in the sunlight, and Dean picked it up and wove it through the cuff of his shirt so he wouldn't lose it. Then he dug a hole at the base of a nearby tree and scooped Elizabeth's remains into the ground with shaking hands.

Once he'd finished, Dean wiped his hands on the grass and sat back. His task was done, thanks to a long-dead girl, and now Dean had a whole day to kill. He wondered how Sam was doing. But to think about Sam too long made Dean's gut start to hurt, so he settled down in the shade, the sun blocked out by layers of leaves above, and dozed lightly against a tree trunk. He tried not to think of Elizabeth's startled eyes.

Dean fell asleep and dreamed of Sam on fire. Sam's eyes turned black as ink, his skin aflame. He scorched Dean's hands.

Dean grabbed Sam by the arms, ignoring the fire, and tugged Sam from the ceremonial circle. The flesh of his palms blistered, and Sam fought him like a wild animal, teeth bared, until his flailing hands caught on the knife tucked into Dean's belt.

Sam slashed at Dean, letting out an angry shriek, burning, burning, but Dean managed to block the blow. The knife caught him in the back of the hand, shredding tendons like butter, and Dean, caught off guard by the intense pain, bit his mouth around a scream.

Sam pressed in closer, taking Dean's weakness as an opportunity. The knife poked against Dean's ribs, sharp tip hovering, waiting, and all Dean could think was Please, Sam, no, not like this, Sammy NO -- and he flailed out with his injured hand, catching Sam across the face and leaving a streak of his own blood.

And Sam... stopped. The fire cleared from his face. Sam blinked, and the black slipped from his eyes like an oil stain.

Dean stared at Sam, trembling from pain and fear. He could hear a distant rumble, like something was angry.

"Sam?" Dean could barely hope, but he had to hope. "Sam?"

Sam blinked, entirely human, entirely Sam. "Dean?" He caught Dean's hand by the wrist, looked blankly at the big gaping slash in Dean's palm, at the blood oozing from the wound. He didn't seem to connect Dean's injury to the knife that he still held in his other hand, and Dean reached out slowly to take it away from him. Sam gave it up without a word.

"Good to have you back," Dean said shakily, and Sam made a choked noise and gripped Dean's shoulder hard. He looked sick and pale, like the past few months had suddenly come crashing down on him. The smear of Dean's blood cut across Sam's face like a half-mask.

Dean wanted to wrap his arms around his brother, make sure he was really there, really Sam. But there was no time, there was no time because Dean could hear a banging on the walls of the warehouse, something big and nasty trying to get in. They were so screwed, so very screwed, and they had to get out of there now.

He twisted in his sleep, preparing for the next round. Usually, just as Sam and Dean began to run, something would happen to make Dean wake up, panting and swearing.

Sometimes, they just wouldn't run fast enough and the demon's fiery onslaught would tear them apart.

Sometimes, Sam would blink at Dean, his eyes gone black again, laughter in his voice as he said Made you look.

This time, though, the dream took a new turn. They made it out of the warehouse, gasping and clinging to each other, and nothing leapt out at them. They were safe.

Dean turned to Sam, and suddenly Sam's mouth was on his; lips shoved right up against Dean's, frantic and biting. Dean stiffened, and Sam took the opportunity to shove Dean up against the side of the warehouse, sliding cool hands under Dean's shirt.

"Dean," Sam murmured against his skin. "Say yes."

Dean woke up, his dick hard and throbbing in his jeans. Baba Yaga stood over him with a knowing look in her eyes and held out her hand for the needle. Dean handed it to her, then doubled over, retching in the hollow made by the tree's roots. His vision doubled, and Dean felt a tearing pain in his gut, like something had ripped loose.

It was too soon for another wave of the demon's sickness. It was way too soon.

Wasn't it?

*

Dean had been in Baba Yaga's clutches for a full six hours. Sam told himself that they wouldn't - couldn't kill Dean, not yet - why would they give Sam the answer to Dean's curse, if they weren't going to give Sam a chance to see if it worked?

Sam ran his thumb over the cover of the book Timothy had given him. The answer was right there on the page. Sam had found the ceremony easily, flipping past crackling, dog-eared paper straight to the place marked with a piece of string.

It was a fairly simple ritual. It was crazy to attempt it, of course, and to some people the price would have been too high, but as long as it worked, Sam didn't really care.

And it would work.

Six hours. Sam made himself read the directions for the ritual again, making a mental list of what he'd need. He had time. He could prepare for the ritual and then go to the woods, let Baba Yaga know that Sam had found the book and he was ready for his brother back, now.

Dean would be fine until Sam found him. He had to be fine.

*

On the third day, Dean's task was washing dishes. Despite the fact that he'd seen them being washed by something - or someone - on his first day there, the piles of dishes in the sink were as high and crooked as ever. The plates were slippery and covered in greasy spots and chunks of things Dean didn't want to look at too closely.

He rinsed them off and stacked them up, trying to ignore the bits of bone and flesh that were caught in the sink drain. He had the feeling he really didn't want to know where the waste came from.

Just as Dean stacked the last dish, Baba Yaga came in. It wasn't the same one that had been ordering Dean around for the last couple of days; actually, Dean was pretty sure it was the one he'd talked to in the forest, the one who'd tricked him into this to start with. Dean had less than fuzzy feelings toward that Baba Yaga.

She sat at the dining table, her shoulders hunched and her head nearly scraping the ceiling. The house was normal-size for Dean, but there was something trippy about how Baba Yaga fit in her own space, like no matter what size she actually was, she had to expand to fit it. Dean didn't even try to figure it out, just ignored it in order to stave off the inevitable headache.

"We are not going to eat you," said Baba Yaga.

"Today, yeah, I know," said Dean. "Maybe tomorrow I'll get lucky, huh?"

"No," said Baba Yaga. "Silly boy, why would we kill you? We want to know too much. Your brother, he has realized this. He is beginning to understand why we are here."

"My brother?" asked Dean. "What the hell do you mean? Where's Sam?"

She got up, somehow managing to stand and still fit in the same space she'd taken up while seated. "Only way to know is to see. You may go back. We grant you safe passage. Your brother waits for you at the forest edge. First, though, you must finish the dishes."

"What?" But Dean had already -

He looked behind him and the sink was full again, overflowing with suds, dishes and particles of old meat. Great. Figured.

But Dean just picked up the sponge again. None of it mattered. Sam was waiting for him. It was way too easy and it didn't make sense, but Dean didn't care.

He didn't know how long it took before he washed the last dish - again - but when he did, they stayed stacked, tall mounds of gleaming china. Baba Yaga made pleased little noises, squeezing Dean's shoulder with one bony hand.

"Time for you to go, soon, soon," she said.

"I thought you said now," said Dean. His hands were shriveled and pruny from the dishwater, and he wanted to wrap them around Baba Yaga's tiny little neck.

Dean heard another one come in, and he twisted to face her. It was the youngest Baba Yaga - or at least Dean thought it was the youngest, it was hard to tell. Her hair gleaming burnished black in the light, lit up with strands of dirty gray.

"Sister," she hissed. "You were supposed to let him out days ago. We agreed."

The Baba Yaga next to Dean cocked her head and licked her lips. "He washes well."

"It is past time," said the younger Baba Yaga. "His body weakens. You have pushed him too hard, sister, and he may not last the night."

"What are you talking about?" asked Dean. He was having trouble forming the questions, like he'd been hit with heavy-duty painkillers. "I feel fine. And what do you mean, how long have I been here?"

They both stared at him critically, like they were sizing him up.

"Hard to say," said one. "Time is different here. Maybe days. Maybe hours. Maybe months."

God. Dean could hardly think through the muzzy feeling in his head, but he could still think of time. Sammy. If Dean had been gone that long -

"But not for your brother," said the other, like it knew what Dean was thinking. "For him, less than a day. Strange, how time can travel and weave."

"Nice," said Dean. "That's real nice. But I think someone was saying something about letting me go?"

They stared at him for a moment.

"One more day, sister," said the older Baba Yaga. "Just one more. He is strong enough for an eternity in our house."

"And an hour outside of it," the younger one retorted. "Sister, we agreed." She paused, and the two Baba Yagas stared at each other, having some sort of conversation Dean couldn't hear.

"One more day," said Baba Yaga.

"Very well," said the other Baba Yaga. "One more. You are right, he does wash well."

"Fuck you both," said Dean, and he took off for the door. One of the crones tried to grab him, and he twisted past her grip and elbowed her right in her long, beaky nose. They shouted things at Dean in their shriveled root voices, but he ignored them and kept going.

He burst through the door and stumbled outside, and Dean paused, unsure of what to do next. There was nowhere to run that the Baba Yagas wouldn't be able to catch him. The house was already beginning to shudder in its foundations, like it would be ready to bound after Dean at any second.

Dean ran anyway.

He ran until he had to stop, gasping desperately for air. He could still hear the angry shouts of the Baba Yagas, distant but gaining on him. Shit. Dean was pretty screwed.

Then Dean felt a whuff of breath against his ear, the press of a large nose against his shoulder. He twisted around, almost falling on his ass, and found the stallion from the stables standing behind him. It stared at him, tossed its mane.

Dean. Go.

Dean staggered back, looked around wildly for the source of the voice. The horse made a disgruntled noise and nosed at Dean again, trying to get his attention.

Dean patted the stallion absentmindedly, wondering how long it was going to be before the crones caught up with him. He should start moving again, as soon as he could get his legs to work.

Goddamnit, Dean!

Dean paused. "Dad?" His voice cracked. "Am I -"

No, you're not dead, but you goddamn will be if you don't get on that horse. They're after you. Their curiosity only protects you so far, son.

"Hate horses," Dean managed. The adrenaline rush was starting to wear off, and the exhaustion that replaced it was close to overwhelming. "And I can't. Too damn tired."

The voice sighed. I know.

And suddenly there were arms around Dean's waist. Strong, invisible arms swinging Dean up to sit astride the horse, followed by a familiar grunt of exertion and a strong grip on his shoulder as Dean sagged forward. Dean found his hands wrapped tight in the stallion's mane, and he held on as the horse lurched forward, thick muscles shifting and coiling beneath Dean's thighs.

The horse seemed to fly through the forest, and Dean held on, even though every jolt in the horse's stride made Dean's shoulder sing with pain. The voice was gone, like it had never been there, and of course it hadn't. Just Dean's imagination, not an Obi-Wan moment. Use the horse, Luke.

Dean curled forward, letting the constant aches and the jarring rhythm of the galloping horse lull him into a half-asleep daze. He laughed into the stallion's rough mane.

He was free.

*

Almost twelve hours after they'd taken Dean, and Sam was only now returning to the forest. He still had no idea where to look for Dean, but he'd comb the entire forest if he had to.

Sam's frantic rush had calmed since Timothy had given him the book, but he was still bone-deep afraid. He'd convinced himself that Baba Yaga wouldn't hurt Dean because she'd be curious to see if the curse-breaking worked - that's what Baba Yaga was all about, after all, knowledge and the power that comes from it - but Sam knew that he could just as easily be wrong. Dean could be dead now, with the creepy witch ladies cracking open his bones for the marrow.

He'd called Bobby just to check the specifics of the spell (and listen to Bobby curse him and call him ten kinds of idiot, which Sam had happily ignored, because it didn't matter what the spell involved as long as it saved Dean), and then Sam had stopped at a Walgreens on the way to the lake, picking up some provisions and some of the vital ingredients for the spell.

For all Sam knew, he wouldn't be able to find Dean for days. He wanted to be prepared, wanted to be able to perform the ritual as soon as he and Dean got back to the motel. And most of all, he didn't want to give Dean any time to question it.

Sam was ready. He would grab a flashlight, a shotgun and a backpack full of supplies, and Sam would comb every inch of this damn forest. He would find his brother, dead or alive.

Sam pulled up to the edge of the woods and cut the engine. He climbed out of the Impala, dragging his pack along the seat and hoisting it over his shoulders.

He hadn't even turned toward the forest yet when he heard his name called.

"Sam?"

Sam stared.

His brother stood at the woods' edge, sending Sam a pale and shaky smile. "Samuel Winchester, I presume?" Dean said weakly.

"Holy shit," said Sam, and the relief that passed over Dean's face was like a fucking sunrise.