A Quest Like That (Chapters 7-8)
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Chapter 7
Sam’s feet were sore. His head ached with a relentless throb that he hadn't noticed beginning, but which felt like it had been pummelling his skull for days. And he was hungry, seriously hungry with the kind of gnawing stomach pain he couldn’t remember suffering since way way back in his youth, when he and Dean had been teenagers left without Dad’s supervision and (too often) a little short on money for food. But that had been fine, right? It hadn’t stunted his growth, hadn’t had any lasting effect beyond his inordinate enjoyment of good-quality vegetables, the kind you could only get in a farmer’s market or organic grocery.
Jesus. He really was tired, out here wandering in the middle of medieval nowhere and fantasising about organic fruit. And yeah, now he came to think about it, he was utterly exhausted. His vision was blurring. His legs were stumbling awkward and heavy beneath him. Maybe he should sit down just for a little while - try and get some sleep. But the moment his knees hit the ground, there it was - the white stag, hovering on the edge of his vision.
Sam lifted his head. “Really?” he said.
The stag gazed at him, impassive.
“OK.” Sam swallowed, dragged himself painfully upright. He lifted his reluctant feet and pushed himself onward. The ferns clung wetly around his legs, rain slanting heavily against him. Here, beside the river, it was much more exposed and Sam found himself longing for the relative shelter of the forest. Just as the thought crossed his mind, he saw the stag take a turn back into the woods. Thank God.
This part of the forest was so thick that the ground underfoot was barely damp. It was quieter, the rain muffled as it made its way down through the leaves and into the earth. Sam could hear his own ragged breathing as he walked, the clank of the sword buckled behind him. Somewhere, an owl hooted. It must be night again. Between the shade of the trees and his own hallucinogenic tiredness, it was getting hard to tell.
Up ahead, the stag paused; and Sam realised that he himself had stopped, inadvertently, swaying where he stood. The animal turned its head towards him with what felt like recrimination.
“I’m sorry. It’s just… I’m so tired,” Sam said.
Of course, it didn’t say anything. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected. It just began to move; and he limped after it, fighting to keep his eyes open, feet tripping continually over the debris on the forest floor.
~~~
“This cave right here?” Dean asked Pellinore. “You’re sure this is where he lives?”
“Certainly,” Pellinore told him, his whole attitude visibly brightening with renewed hope. The beast lay behind him, inert, trussed to a wooden sled. Pellinore had been lugging it with obvious effort, a weird parodic inversion of their usual relationship, the beast forced into a dragging, inadvertent pursuit.
“Great,” Dean said - but then was distracted by a voice, calling his name.
It was Charlie, hurrying through the trees, beaming at the sight of her friend. “Duuuuude!” she said. “This is, like, a crazy coincidence! How come you’re here?” She caught sight of the beast. “Whoooah. You did it!”
Dean grimaced. “Change of plan.”
“Huh?”
“I killed the beast,” said Dean. “But turns out this clown can’t live without it. So we’re gonna bring it back to life.”
Charlie looked at Pellinore, uncertain.
“My lady,” he said.
“Seriously,” said Dean, wondering if his face could convey one-tenth of the inexpressible weariness he felt about the whole business. “Just… don’t ask.”
“OK,” said Charlie cautiously.
Then Dean said, “Where’s Sam?”
“Interesting question,” Charlie said. “I think… still looking for the Grail.”
“You got separated?”
“Long story. Wine, women and song. You know. Little bit of a cursed castle, lost knights, all that jazz. Sam decided it wasn’t for him.”
“So what, he’s just out there in the woods on his own?”
“He’s a big boy,” Charlie offered. “I’m sure he’ll be OK.”
Dean didn’t like it. But if the wizard could help with anything, he could probably help with Sam, too. So he turned back to Pellinore. “You ready for this?”
The cave was dark, and twisting; Dean was grateful for the flat level of the ground underfoot. But before too long he became aware of a silvery glow, emanating from the depths of the cave, growing stronger as they headed further in. Before too long, the narrow passage emerged onto a much larger chamber, roof spiralling off in stone-fanged stalactites over their heads. In the centre of the room was a silver throne, with a man seated on it. His whole body was covered by the white threads of his long beard, which spilt down over his lap and onto the floor. It looked like he was asleep.
“Is this the guy?” Dean asked, though it was a ridiculous question. He was pretty sure you’d have to be magic just to grow that much facial hair.
Pellinore nodded dumbly, apparently struck still with fear. Typical. The dude was the worst kind of wuss.
So Dean prepared to step forward - but before he could, the wizard jerked his head upright, fixing the three of them with the gaze of his beady blue eye. “Dean Winchester,” he said. “Charlie Bradbury. Pellinore of the Isles.”
Pellinore fell to his knees, tugging at Dean’s sleeve to pressure him down into kneeling too. Beside them, Charlie dropped into an awkward curtsey.
“What have you to ask me, travellers?” the wizard asked.
“Go on then, tell him,” Dean said to Pellinore. The knight shuffled forward, without getting up, head bowed and whole body shaking with obvious fear. “I ask only one favour, your most high and magical majesty. Would that you might find it in yourself to revive the Questing Beast?”
The wizard laughed. “You are a Pellinore?”
Pellinore nodded.
“And you wish me to bring back to life the same beast that your ancestors have eternally struggled to kill?”
Pellinore knotted his fingers together, silent, embarrassed.
“You are far from the first of your race,” said the wizard, “to make this request. And I will answer you as I answered the others. Go from me. Return to the mouth of the cave.”
“Oh.” A small, dejected sound.
“You will find that the animal has returned to its usual condition. You can continue your chase.”
Pellinore jumped to his feet with an agility that belied the weight of the armour he was wearing. Spinning around with an expression of ecstasy, he positively skipped back out of the cave. “Goodbye, Dean,” he called.
“And good riddance,” Dean muttered. What a trip. The guy was clearly completely nuts. Who spent their life dedicated to tracking down evil - if evil was even what that monster was - and then found a way to plough themselves straight back into the fight as soon as it seemed that they might at last have escaped it?
“Do not be so superior, Dean,” said the wizard. “Do you not see your own actions in him?”
That was just rude. Guy had no right breaking in on Dean’s thoughts like that. And anyway, he and Pellinore had precisely nothing in common. Dean was… well, he had to admit that he kind of liked hunting, that he did get something out of the fact that it gave him drive. You couldn’t fuss around worrying about the point of life, or finding yourself, or any of that crap that people got worried about, not when there were bad things out there in the dark that had to be killed. Wasn’t that why he’d chosen to obliterate what happened with Kevin by taking on the Mark and the mission it brought him? Going gung-ho after Abaddon and Metatron had let him give into his anger and drown out his guilt. So yeah, Dean supposed he might be able to see, a little, where Pellinore’s crisis had come from when he lost the beast.
And, yeah, maybe to an outside eye, to some dumbass like the wizard, it might maybe seem like Dean had been doing something like this reanimation; that he’d made his share of dubious bargains in his time. Wasn’t that more or less what Sam had said, when he was so mad with Dean over Gadreel? That Dean had only stopped him doing the trials because he was scared? That was when Sam had asked him, asked Dean to explain the point of why Sam was alive. Dean’s response had been immediate, certain, ‘You and me. Fighting the good fight.’ And yeah, maybe Sam had brushed that off. But for Dean, that was it. That was everything. Him and Sam. In the Impala. Hunting monsters. That was who he was. So maybe. Maybe this wizard guy had a bit of a point. Like half of a point. One-third.
~~~
Sam wasn’t sure but it felt like the forest was getting thicker, branches closing in tight around his face. And they were different - not the strong, sturdy limbs of the oaks that he’d been passing for hours, but something altogether wirier, darker, sharp. He brushed it off, moving forward, focusing his gaze on the stag as it retreated before him; when suddenly, he was brought up short.
Twisting round, he could see that the neck of his shirt had caught on a long, narrow thorn. And looking around him, he saw - that’s what they all were, all these plants. A great thicket of black thorns curling around him, and here he was right in the middle of them. He looked behind him. The route down which he’d come wasn’t as clear as it should have been. It didn’t look like it was nearly wide enough to pass through. Even as he watched, the thorns seemed to spiral back into place, blocking the path.
“Huh,” said Sam. He tried to pull forward again, but it was really impossible now, the branches knitting together directly before his face. “OK.” He fought down the panic building in his throat. The stag wouldn’t have led him here if it wasn’t necessary. He could be sure of that. (Can you be sure of it? said a voice in his head. He led you to the castle, didn’t he? Some place that turned out to be.)
“Shut up,” Sam said - and froze, chilled through with the memory of another occasion where he’d found himself talking to the voices in his head. Not good. But he shook it off, and concentrated on wriggling his hand down towards his sword. It wasn’t easy. It felt like the thorns were alive, waiting snake-like in order to pounce at the most painful and inconvenient time, snagging on the flesh of his arms so that by the time he got a grip on the handle and managed to coax the weapon out of its case, he was covered from wrist to bicep with short, deep cuts.
At least the pain might help keep him awake. Which had to be the consolation as he drew back his arm, spearing it firmly onto a particularly vicious thorn, and began to thrash his way through the thicket.
It was like fighting a living thing, a kind of spiny octopus folding itself around him. Every time he managed to hack away at one clump of branches, hurrying himself forward into the resulting space, the air around him seemed to close up again with twice as many tendrils as there had been before. He could barely breathe with it. The thorns tore at his face and cut into at his sides. But he kept his head down, kept slashing with the sword, pushing steadily on.
~~
“And now,” said the wizard, “what can I do for the pair of you?”
Dean looked at Charlie. “Can you help me find my brother?” he asked.
“He went after the Grail,” said Charlie.
The wizard looked grave. “Many men have been lost on that quest,” he said.
“Yeah,” said Charlie. “I met a few of them already.”
“Can I just,” began Dean, and then paused. Was this a dumb question? But… fuck it. This whole world was dumb. “Can you just tell me what’s so great about the Grail in the first place? Like… my brother didn’t really tell me. And I’d like to know what all these guys are looking for. You know.”
The wizard nodded, slowly. “Of course. Well. The Grail is a high, holy object. The quest for it is akin to a religious pilgrimage, in many ways. Only the very purest of the knights can hope to find it. The others will find themselves carried astray on their path.”
“But what does it do?” said Dean.
“It is a vessel of purification,” said the wizard. “Drinking from the grail absolves the drinker of all of his sins, brings him to a state of near-angelic perfection.”
“Just so you know,” Dean said, “angels aren’t all that perfect.”
The wizard ignored him. “Its effect is such that the drinker may choose, after his encounter with the grail, to ascend directly; to join the Lord in heaven without living through his penance on earth.”
“Hang on, what?” said Dean. “Are you telling me that it’s gonna kill him?” God dammit, Sam!
“No.” The wizard was shaking his head. “The death is not necessary, nor instant. It is merely a privilege that the finder of the grail may take up; the choice to set down his earthly cares and to sit at God’s side in heaven, to continue in the ecstasy and the peace that he’s earned.”
Dean was silent, then, deliberately avoiding Charlie’s eye. This wasn’t good news. Yeah, sure, ‘not necessary or instant’. But Sam lately wasn’t really one for the joys of life. It was hard to picture him turning down that kind of offer - turning down the chance of the rest he’d been so long denied. Dean pictured his brother, sad and strained and weary, and he felt absolutely certain that Sam, granted heaven, would choose to die.
“Can you get us to him?” he asked the wizard.
“I can. I will give you two horses from my own stables. They will take you swiftly to the place where he is fighting. If it is possible to bring you there in time, they will.”
“Right,” Dean said. “Time to revive my own questing beast, I guess.”
“You will find the horses at the cavemouth,” said the wizard. And then, as they turned to go, “My lady.”
Charlie stopped, looked back at him. “I would thank you for the return of my necklace.”
“You what?” said Dean.
“I believe it is the reason for the three of you to be here at all,” said the wizard benignly. “It has found its way back to me.”
A slow expression of horror spread over Charlie’s face. She groped down the front of her armour, revealing a thick, heavy chain. “Are you telling me,” she said, “That this is why we’ve ended up here, running around this forest? That it’s my fault?”
The wizard smiled. “You should not be so quick to condemn the necklace. You would find on inquiry that you owe it your life. Had you not been wearing it you would never have woken after drinking the potion at the Castle Black. Still less would you have found your way to my cavern. My possessions exert a powerful will to come home.”
“What even is that thing?” Dean spluttered. Charlie turned to him with a guilty expression.
“I borrowed it. From the Bunker,” she said.
“You did what?”
“You know, you guys said, have a root through, see if I could dig out anything I wanted to take for the cosplay stuff. A while back. When I got back from Oz.”
“Yeah,” said Dean, “through the wardrobes. Not through the archives.”
“Ohhhh….” said Charlie, soft.
“Goddammit, Charlie, all of that stuff is magical! What else did you take?”
“I’ll give it back to you,” she said hastily. “Once we’re out of here.”
“That’s another thing,” said Dean. “How do we get -”
But suddenly the cave had vanished, and they were standing in the trees where it had once been, with two great chestnut horses breathing hot in their faces; and he was remember that Sam was out there, dying maybe, and they had to stop him.
“Come on, then,” said Charlie. “Let’s ride.”
~~~
If Sam had felt before that he was losing his grip on the time, he was pretty sure at this point that reality itself was vanishing, dwindling down to an eternal field of thorns. He couldn’t be sure whether he’d made three feet of progress or three miles, just that every movement felt like it was only inches and every lift of the blade tore his bleeding arms raw.
And then, suddenly, he stumbled as his sword cut into empty air. The unopposed weight of it swung him downwards, pulling him awkwardly out of the thicket of thorns. Looking behind him, he saw them shrivel away; so that the long distance back to the edge of the woods became, not the nightmare garden he’d found himself fighting, but a field, grey, empty, dotted with white flowers. And before him, looming dark through the mists, a chapel. It was small and humble, constructed from large heavy stones. Its steeple was stumpy and the roof was made of wood. But Sam felt sure that this was the place that he had seen in his vision; that he’d made it, somehow, to the house of the Grail at last.
Now that he was out of the thorns, he became aware of what they’d done to him; of all the ragged wounds they’d torn into his side. He was throbbing all over with the pain of it, head spinning and dizzy with the loss of blood. But he was here, and he’d made it. So he had to carry on.
Sam lurched in through the lych-gate, grabbing onto the wooden post of it for support. Somehow, with uneven footsteps, he made his way onward and found himself leaning, panting, against the door of the church.
He pushed it open, and found himself suffused in a golden light.
Chapter 8
“Come on, you useless animal,” Dean urged.
Charlie looked back over her shoulder. “You’re kidding, right?” she yelled. “I’ve never seen horses move so fast. These are totally magical, dude.”
“Whatever,” Dean muttered. Yeah, so the woods were going by pretty fast and blurry; and the horse that the wizard had presented him with showed no signs of slowing. But he reserved the right to feel just this frantic until it finally dropped him at wherever it was Sam had gone.
Then up ahead, Dean saw it, a little low chapel set out by itself in a field at the edge of the river, its windows glowing with an unearthly golden light. Why did it have to be a church, again, and another mad dash for Sam’s life?
“Hey, Charlie!” he called, and he saw her urge her horse onward, kicking her legs into its side.
“Please, Sam, please,” he breathed to himself. “Don’t be dead.”
At last, there it was, and here he was, and he slid off his horse ungracefully and ran for the door.
When he got there, he couldn’t open it. There was some kind of force field blocking his way, like the light itself was solid, resisting his hands, a magical barrier trapping Sam irrevocably just beyond reach.
“SAM!” he called, battering fruitlessly at the air. “SAAAAAAAAAAAAAM!”
Unwanted, embarrassing, tears sprang to his eyes. Not again, not this time. He should have known. How many second chances could he get, or expect? How many last-minute interventions would it take to keep Sam tethered down to a life he clearly wanted to leave? Dean pummelled again at the light of the doorway and then slid down it, groundwards, pressing his face into the earth.
Suddenly, he heard Charlie cry out.
He lifted his head. The door was open, and there Sam was inside it, his stupid brother, not dead or dying or evaporating in a haze of light, but positively glowing nonetheless, beaming the kind of big dopey smile that Dean hadn’t seen on his brother’s face in - well, in forever, if he started to think about it.
“Charlie,” Sam said, and Dean felt himself puffing up in overlooked outrage even as Sam continued to speak, “I have no idea how you got him here but honestly, thank God that you managed it.”
Dean caught Charlie’s baffled glance as Sam continued, “Dean. I’ve done it. Man. I’ve done it. It’s done.”
The weight that had begun to lift out of Dean’s chest settled itself back over him with crushing immediacy. “Done what? Sam - if you -” He found himself grasping for the words. “You don’t have to die.”
“What? No, you idiot,” and now Sam was grabbing at his sleeve, pulling him upright and tugging him into the church. “Charlie, come on.”
“Duuuuude,” breathed Charlie as they entered - and yeah, Dean was with her. The place might be small and outwardly unspectacular but inside there was something… kind of wonderful going on. The whole church was bathed in gold, glowing from floor to ceiling with a radiance that acted like balm, seeping its way into Dean’s tired, tense muscles and unknotting them in a welcome release. Even the Mark’s constant tingle, the quick hard pulse of violence under his skin, seemed to be dampened by the atmosphere.
There was an altar, with a cup on it, small and innocuous enough. But in the light, everything seemed different, sacred, somehow gilded with hope. And Sam was in the centre of it, face radiant, even his stupid hair seeming to emanate some kind of… holiness. Oh God. Dean was definitely dreaming. This was all too weird.
Sam stepped towards the altar, picked up the cup.
Dean caught a glimpse of the liquid slopping viscous inside. “Oh no,” he said - almost mechanically, because he knew he had to.
It seemed like it was impossible to get really anxious, in here. It was like the best kind of trip, the kind where everything seemed awesome and positive and you just couldn’t feel bad, no matter how much you knew in the rational part of you that the monsters were out there and you had to deal with them and life sucked royally, really. It was like that. Dean couldn’t feel bad about what he was looking at, when Sam was all golden and glowy and happy and the same ecstatic feeling was slowly suffusing into his soul.
But he looked at the cup and its contents, glinting dark ruby red in the light, and said, “Sam, though, really. Drinking blood? I thought we said…”
Sam was shaking his head. “It’s not blood, Dean. Or it is, and it isn’t. You know. Communion wine. And also. The blood of Christ.”
Dean tried to think of a way in which he could convey his scepticism about this without hurting Sam’s feelings.
“Anyway, I’m not going to drink it. You are.”
Say what? This was definitely harshing Dean’s buzz. He shook his head, trying to knock out some of the numbness that the gold and the glowy seemed to be laying on him, trying to formulate an argument about how crazy Sam sounded. “I don’t -“
“Look, Dean,” Sam said, fond and exasperated. “This is how we do it, you fool.”
“Hey -“
“Please. For once in your life. Just listen to me. Just… shut up.”
Surprising himself, Dean did.
“This is how we do it, Dean. How we get rid of the Mark of Cain. Don’t you see? This stuff, in this cup, in this place, it’s like… essence of holy. It can purify anything. And you can drink from it. Right now. Go on.”
Sam picked up the cup from the altar, stepped forward, holding it up.
Behind Dean, Charlie coughed.
“Isn’t… I mean… don’t you have to earn that?”
Sam looked at her. “That’s what we just did. I mean. What I just did, I guess. There were three trials. The beast. The castle. The thorns. You guys didn’t see those, I guess. It doesn’t matter. There were trials and I passed them and I’m here and I’ve earned this. And, you know. I’m giving it to Dean.”
“Hey, Sammy, no,” Dean said, and Sam was gazing at him tired and fond.
“Seriously, dude. Shut up and drink.”
So Dean did. He reached forward and took the cup, felt the cold metal of it against his palms. And he lifted it to his mouth and tried not to think too hard about the whole blood/wine conundrum, just tipped back his head and drank.
He wasn’t sure if this was a ‘down the hatch’ scenario or a ‘polite sip’ scenario, so he just kept on chugging, let it run down his throat, felt it burn warm into his stomach until it was gone. And yeah, it didn’t taste like blood - which was good, he supposed - but it didn’t quite taste like wine either, not like he drank much of that. This felt brighter and sharper than anything he could remember, felt like it might be cleaning him up from the inside out.
“Look! Look at your arm,” Sam said, choked.
So Dean did, just in time to see the Mark flare golden and float away, dispersing particles into the general glow. And the pain of it vanished also: the sick nasty bloodlust that had been tugging at him since he took it, the sour taint that had been slowly poisoning his view on the world. He felt, suddenly, like himself again, not perfect (not really) and not without painful memories, but lighter, stronger, like maybe he could be happy again.
He looked again at his forearm, bare and back to normal at last. And he looked up at Sam, who was smiling for real this time, with none of the strain or the tightness round the eyes that he’d been wearing even that first time he “cured” Dean back in the bunker with the blood. This was different. This was the real thing.
“Hey. You did it, Sam,” Dean said. There was a catch in his voice.
Sam nodded, grinned. “Yeah. I know.”
And then, it seemed suddenly necessary that Sam know something.
“No,” Dean said. “Not curing me, though, I mean.”
Sam frowned.
“You did it, that stupid quest. Like…” Dean gestured vaguely with his hand, trying to conjure up the intensity of that moment in the hotel corridor, the painful shine in Sam’s feverish eyes and the dawning realisation that his little brother had felt tainted for the whole of his life. “You know. Knights of the Round Table. ‘I could never go on a quest like that.’ So. Turns out you could. And you did. You know.”
He felt foolish saying it, but also like it was important, that Sam needed to be confronted with the truth of the matter straight out, so he couldn’t pussy around it or deny it and keep feeling bad. “You are… you know. Pure. After all.”
Sam’s face tightened and for a sick moment Dean thought that was it; that he’d managed to say something so inappropriate that the brief moment of Sam’s sunshine happiness had already cut short. But then his brother’s features were trembling, slackening, and “Oh hey, man,” Dean said, moving forward to rest a hand on his brother’s shoulder as Sam started to cry. “Hey.”
He looked over at Charlie, who was crying, too, eyes big and luminous in the fading light of the chapel. “Sorry,” he mouthed, and she rolled her eyes. “It’s beautiful,” she said, silent, teasing, but serious too.
“I’m sorry,” said Sam, hiccupping.
“Hey,” Dean said. “You did good. It’s OK.”
Then Sam lifted his head, breathed a sigh. He pointed towards the open door.
Silhouetted bright against the dark, Dean saw the shape of an enormous stag.
“Heeeey,” said Charlie happily. “Our saviour returns!”
“Literally,” said Sam with a watery grin.
“I don’t get it,” said Dean.
“He’s a good guy, trust me,” Charlie said. “I guess… we should follow him again?”
So they did it, almost floating on their giddy relief and laughter, following the stag’s sure and silent progress through the trees. And finally, they heard noise in the woods before them, and saw the bright, artificial colours of everyone’s tents.
They emerged into the camp to find everybody in the process of waking, shucking on boots and brushing their teeth and sizzling bacon over the fire.
“Hey, Charlie,” grinned a bespectacled guy with a ponytail. Larry, Sam thought he might be called. “Where did you guys get to? We tried to wake you up for breakfast, but you weren’t in your tents. I think you missed all the sausages. There might still be some beans.”
“You tried to wake us up… this morning?” Charlie said.
“Sure,” said Larry. “About an hour ago. Anyway it’s great that you’re here now. We need to plan today’s action.”
Sam left them to their discussion, caught Dean’s eye and headed alongside him back to their tent.
“Is that regulation armour?” asked a woman, gazing admiringly at the shiny breastplate of Sam’s new suit.
Sam shook his head. “I don’t know,” he told her. “I’m new at this kind of thing.”
Back in the privacy of their canvas bedroom, the two of them took a silent moment to relax, reassess. Here they were. Nothing broken. Nobody lost. And the Mark, gone forever. Dean couldn’t believe it, kept looking incredulous down at his arm again. Still gone. And he knew it, really, could feel it in the lightness of his step and the lift of his heart.
“Sam,” he said. “You’re my hero.”
“Shut up, dude,” said Sam. And smiled.
Chapter 7
Sam’s feet were sore. His head ached with a relentless throb that he hadn't noticed beginning, but which felt like it had been pummelling his skull for days. And he was hungry, seriously hungry with the kind of gnawing stomach pain he couldn’t remember suffering since way way back in his youth, when he and Dean had been teenagers left without Dad’s supervision and (too often) a little short on money for food. But that had been fine, right? It hadn’t stunted his growth, hadn’t had any lasting effect beyond his inordinate enjoyment of good-quality vegetables, the kind you could only get in a farmer’s market or organic grocery.
Jesus. He really was tired, out here wandering in the middle of medieval nowhere and fantasising about organic fruit. And yeah, now he came to think about it, he was utterly exhausted. His vision was blurring. His legs were stumbling awkward and heavy beneath him. Maybe he should sit down just for a little while - try and get some sleep. But the moment his knees hit the ground, there it was - the white stag, hovering on the edge of his vision.
Sam lifted his head. “Really?” he said.
The stag gazed at him, impassive.
“OK.” Sam swallowed, dragged himself painfully upright. He lifted his reluctant feet and pushed himself onward. The ferns clung wetly around his legs, rain slanting heavily against him. Here, beside the river, it was much more exposed and Sam found himself longing for the relative shelter of the forest. Just as the thought crossed his mind, he saw the stag take a turn back into the woods. Thank God.
This part of the forest was so thick that the ground underfoot was barely damp. It was quieter, the rain muffled as it made its way down through the leaves and into the earth. Sam could hear his own ragged breathing as he walked, the clank of the sword buckled behind him. Somewhere, an owl hooted. It must be night again. Between the shade of the trees and his own hallucinogenic tiredness, it was getting hard to tell.
Up ahead, the stag paused; and Sam realised that he himself had stopped, inadvertently, swaying where he stood. The animal turned its head towards him with what felt like recrimination.
“I’m sorry. It’s just… I’m so tired,” Sam said.
Of course, it didn’t say anything. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected. It just began to move; and he limped after it, fighting to keep his eyes open, feet tripping continually over the debris on the forest floor.
~~~
“This cave right here?” Dean asked Pellinore. “You’re sure this is where he lives?”
“Certainly,” Pellinore told him, his whole attitude visibly brightening with renewed hope. The beast lay behind him, inert, trussed to a wooden sled. Pellinore had been lugging it with obvious effort, a weird parodic inversion of their usual relationship, the beast forced into a dragging, inadvertent pursuit.
“Great,” Dean said - but then was distracted by a voice, calling his name.
It was Charlie, hurrying through the trees, beaming at the sight of her friend. “Duuuuude!” she said. “This is, like, a crazy coincidence! How come you’re here?” She caught sight of the beast. “Whoooah. You did it!”
Dean grimaced. “Change of plan.”
“Huh?”
“I killed the beast,” said Dean. “But turns out this clown can’t live without it. So we’re gonna bring it back to life.”
Charlie looked at Pellinore, uncertain.
“My lady,” he said.
“Seriously,” said Dean, wondering if his face could convey one-tenth of the inexpressible weariness he felt about the whole business. “Just… don’t ask.”
“OK,” said Charlie cautiously.
Then Dean said, “Where’s Sam?”
“Interesting question,” Charlie said. “I think… still looking for the Grail.”
“You got separated?”
“Long story. Wine, women and song. You know. Little bit of a cursed castle, lost knights, all that jazz. Sam decided it wasn’t for him.”
“So what, he’s just out there in the woods on his own?”
“He’s a big boy,” Charlie offered. “I’m sure he’ll be OK.”
Dean didn’t like it. But if the wizard could help with anything, he could probably help with Sam, too. So he turned back to Pellinore. “You ready for this?”
The cave was dark, and twisting; Dean was grateful for the flat level of the ground underfoot. But before too long he became aware of a silvery glow, emanating from the depths of the cave, growing stronger as they headed further in. Before too long, the narrow passage emerged onto a much larger chamber, roof spiralling off in stone-fanged stalactites over their heads. In the centre of the room was a silver throne, with a man seated on it. His whole body was covered by the white threads of his long beard, which spilt down over his lap and onto the floor. It looked like he was asleep.
“Is this the guy?” Dean asked, though it was a ridiculous question. He was pretty sure you’d have to be magic just to grow that much facial hair.
Pellinore nodded dumbly, apparently struck still with fear. Typical. The dude was the worst kind of wuss.
So Dean prepared to step forward - but before he could, the wizard jerked his head upright, fixing the three of them with the gaze of his beady blue eye. “Dean Winchester,” he said. “Charlie Bradbury. Pellinore of the Isles.”
Pellinore fell to his knees, tugging at Dean’s sleeve to pressure him down into kneeling too. Beside them, Charlie dropped into an awkward curtsey.
“What have you to ask me, travellers?” the wizard asked.
“Go on then, tell him,” Dean said to Pellinore. The knight shuffled forward, without getting up, head bowed and whole body shaking with obvious fear. “I ask only one favour, your most high and magical majesty. Would that you might find it in yourself to revive the Questing Beast?”
The wizard laughed. “You are a Pellinore?”
Pellinore nodded.
“And you wish me to bring back to life the same beast that your ancestors have eternally struggled to kill?”
Pellinore knotted his fingers together, silent, embarrassed.
“You are far from the first of your race,” said the wizard, “to make this request. And I will answer you as I answered the others. Go from me. Return to the mouth of the cave.”
“Oh.” A small, dejected sound.
“You will find that the animal has returned to its usual condition. You can continue your chase.”
Pellinore jumped to his feet with an agility that belied the weight of the armour he was wearing. Spinning around with an expression of ecstasy, he positively skipped back out of the cave. “Goodbye, Dean,” he called.
“And good riddance,” Dean muttered. What a trip. The guy was clearly completely nuts. Who spent their life dedicated to tracking down evil - if evil was even what that monster was - and then found a way to plough themselves straight back into the fight as soon as it seemed that they might at last have escaped it?
“Do not be so superior, Dean,” said the wizard. “Do you not see your own actions in him?”
That was just rude. Guy had no right breaking in on Dean’s thoughts like that. And anyway, he and Pellinore had precisely nothing in common. Dean was… well, he had to admit that he kind of liked hunting, that he did get something out of the fact that it gave him drive. You couldn’t fuss around worrying about the point of life, or finding yourself, or any of that crap that people got worried about, not when there were bad things out there in the dark that had to be killed. Wasn’t that why he’d chosen to obliterate what happened with Kevin by taking on the Mark and the mission it brought him? Going gung-ho after Abaddon and Metatron had let him give into his anger and drown out his guilt. So yeah, Dean supposed he might be able to see, a little, where Pellinore’s crisis had come from when he lost the beast.
And, yeah, maybe to an outside eye, to some dumbass like the wizard, it might maybe seem like Dean had been doing something like this reanimation; that he’d made his share of dubious bargains in his time. Wasn’t that more or less what Sam had said, when he was so mad with Dean over Gadreel? That Dean had only stopped him doing the trials because he was scared? That was when Sam had asked him, asked Dean to explain the point of why Sam was alive. Dean’s response had been immediate, certain, ‘You and me. Fighting the good fight.’ And yeah, maybe Sam had brushed that off. But for Dean, that was it. That was everything. Him and Sam. In the Impala. Hunting monsters. That was who he was. So maybe. Maybe this wizard guy had a bit of a point. Like half of a point. One-third.
~~~
Sam wasn’t sure but it felt like the forest was getting thicker, branches closing in tight around his face. And they were different - not the strong, sturdy limbs of the oaks that he’d been passing for hours, but something altogether wirier, darker, sharp. He brushed it off, moving forward, focusing his gaze on the stag as it retreated before him; when suddenly, he was brought up short.
Twisting round, he could see that the neck of his shirt had caught on a long, narrow thorn. And looking around him, he saw - that’s what they all were, all these plants. A great thicket of black thorns curling around him, and here he was right in the middle of them. He looked behind him. The route down which he’d come wasn’t as clear as it should have been. It didn’t look like it was nearly wide enough to pass through. Even as he watched, the thorns seemed to spiral back into place, blocking the path.
“Huh,” said Sam. He tried to pull forward again, but it was really impossible now, the branches knitting together directly before his face. “OK.” He fought down the panic building in his throat. The stag wouldn’t have led him here if it wasn’t necessary. He could be sure of that. (Can you be sure of it? said a voice in his head. He led you to the castle, didn’t he? Some place that turned out to be.)
“Shut up,” Sam said - and froze, chilled through with the memory of another occasion where he’d found himself talking to the voices in his head. Not good. But he shook it off, and concentrated on wriggling his hand down towards his sword. It wasn’t easy. It felt like the thorns were alive, waiting snake-like in order to pounce at the most painful and inconvenient time, snagging on the flesh of his arms so that by the time he got a grip on the handle and managed to coax the weapon out of its case, he was covered from wrist to bicep with short, deep cuts.
At least the pain might help keep him awake. Which had to be the consolation as he drew back his arm, spearing it firmly onto a particularly vicious thorn, and began to thrash his way through the thicket.
It was like fighting a living thing, a kind of spiny octopus folding itself around him. Every time he managed to hack away at one clump of branches, hurrying himself forward into the resulting space, the air around him seemed to close up again with twice as many tendrils as there had been before. He could barely breathe with it. The thorns tore at his face and cut into at his sides. But he kept his head down, kept slashing with the sword, pushing steadily on.
~~
“And now,” said the wizard, “what can I do for the pair of you?”
Dean looked at Charlie. “Can you help me find my brother?” he asked.
“He went after the Grail,” said Charlie.
The wizard looked grave. “Many men have been lost on that quest,” he said.
“Yeah,” said Charlie. “I met a few of them already.”
“Can I just,” began Dean, and then paused. Was this a dumb question? But… fuck it. This whole world was dumb. “Can you just tell me what’s so great about the Grail in the first place? Like… my brother didn’t really tell me. And I’d like to know what all these guys are looking for. You know.”
The wizard nodded, slowly. “Of course. Well. The Grail is a high, holy object. The quest for it is akin to a religious pilgrimage, in many ways. Only the very purest of the knights can hope to find it. The others will find themselves carried astray on their path.”
“But what does it do?” said Dean.
“It is a vessel of purification,” said the wizard. “Drinking from the grail absolves the drinker of all of his sins, brings him to a state of near-angelic perfection.”
“Just so you know,” Dean said, “angels aren’t all that perfect.”
The wizard ignored him. “Its effect is such that the drinker may choose, after his encounter with the grail, to ascend directly; to join the Lord in heaven without living through his penance on earth.”
“Hang on, what?” said Dean. “Are you telling me that it’s gonna kill him?” God dammit, Sam!
“No.” The wizard was shaking his head. “The death is not necessary, nor instant. It is merely a privilege that the finder of the grail may take up; the choice to set down his earthly cares and to sit at God’s side in heaven, to continue in the ecstasy and the peace that he’s earned.”
Dean was silent, then, deliberately avoiding Charlie’s eye. This wasn’t good news. Yeah, sure, ‘not necessary or instant’. But Sam lately wasn’t really one for the joys of life. It was hard to picture him turning down that kind of offer - turning down the chance of the rest he’d been so long denied. Dean pictured his brother, sad and strained and weary, and he felt absolutely certain that Sam, granted heaven, would choose to die.
“Can you get us to him?” he asked the wizard.
“I can. I will give you two horses from my own stables. They will take you swiftly to the place where he is fighting. If it is possible to bring you there in time, they will.”
“Right,” Dean said. “Time to revive my own questing beast, I guess.”
“You will find the horses at the cavemouth,” said the wizard. And then, as they turned to go, “My lady.”
Charlie stopped, looked back at him. “I would thank you for the return of my necklace.”
“You what?” said Dean.
“I believe it is the reason for the three of you to be here at all,” said the wizard benignly. “It has found its way back to me.”
A slow expression of horror spread over Charlie’s face. She groped down the front of her armour, revealing a thick, heavy chain. “Are you telling me,” she said, “That this is why we’ve ended up here, running around this forest? That it’s my fault?”
The wizard smiled. “You should not be so quick to condemn the necklace. You would find on inquiry that you owe it your life. Had you not been wearing it you would never have woken after drinking the potion at the Castle Black. Still less would you have found your way to my cavern. My possessions exert a powerful will to come home.”
“What even is that thing?” Dean spluttered. Charlie turned to him with a guilty expression.
“I borrowed it. From the Bunker,” she said.
“You did what?”
“You know, you guys said, have a root through, see if I could dig out anything I wanted to take for the cosplay stuff. A while back. When I got back from Oz.”
“Yeah,” said Dean, “through the wardrobes. Not through the archives.”
“Ohhhh….” said Charlie, soft.
“Goddammit, Charlie, all of that stuff is magical! What else did you take?”
“I’ll give it back to you,” she said hastily. “Once we’re out of here.”
“That’s another thing,” said Dean. “How do we get -”
But suddenly the cave had vanished, and they were standing in the trees where it had once been, with two great chestnut horses breathing hot in their faces; and he was remember that Sam was out there, dying maybe, and they had to stop him.
“Come on, then,” said Charlie. “Let’s ride.”
~~~
If Sam had felt before that he was losing his grip on the time, he was pretty sure at this point that reality itself was vanishing, dwindling down to an eternal field of thorns. He couldn’t be sure whether he’d made three feet of progress or three miles, just that every movement felt like it was only inches and every lift of the blade tore his bleeding arms raw.
And then, suddenly, he stumbled as his sword cut into empty air. The unopposed weight of it swung him downwards, pulling him awkwardly out of the thicket of thorns. Looking behind him, he saw them shrivel away; so that the long distance back to the edge of the woods became, not the nightmare garden he’d found himself fighting, but a field, grey, empty, dotted with white flowers. And before him, looming dark through the mists, a chapel. It was small and humble, constructed from large heavy stones. Its steeple was stumpy and the roof was made of wood. But Sam felt sure that this was the place that he had seen in his vision; that he’d made it, somehow, to the house of the Grail at last.
Now that he was out of the thorns, he became aware of what they’d done to him; of all the ragged wounds they’d torn into his side. He was throbbing all over with the pain of it, head spinning and dizzy with the loss of blood. But he was here, and he’d made it. So he had to carry on.
Sam lurched in through the lych-gate, grabbing onto the wooden post of it for support. Somehow, with uneven footsteps, he made his way onward and found himself leaning, panting, against the door of the church.
He pushed it open, and found himself suffused in a golden light.
Chapter 8
“Come on, you useless animal,” Dean urged.
Charlie looked back over her shoulder. “You’re kidding, right?” she yelled. “I’ve never seen horses move so fast. These are totally magical, dude.”
“Whatever,” Dean muttered. Yeah, so the woods were going by pretty fast and blurry; and the horse that the wizard had presented him with showed no signs of slowing. But he reserved the right to feel just this frantic until it finally dropped him at wherever it was Sam had gone.
Then up ahead, Dean saw it, a little low chapel set out by itself in a field at the edge of the river, its windows glowing with an unearthly golden light. Why did it have to be a church, again, and another mad dash for Sam’s life?
“Hey, Charlie!” he called, and he saw her urge her horse onward, kicking her legs into its side.
“Please, Sam, please,” he breathed to himself. “Don’t be dead.”
At last, there it was, and here he was, and he slid off his horse ungracefully and ran for the door.
When he got there, he couldn’t open it. There was some kind of force field blocking his way, like the light itself was solid, resisting his hands, a magical barrier trapping Sam irrevocably just beyond reach.
“SAM!” he called, battering fruitlessly at the air. “SAAAAAAAAAAAAAM!”
Unwanted, embarrassing, tears sprang to his eyes. Not again, not this time. He should have known. How many second chances could he get, or expect? How many last-minute interventions would it take to keep Sam tethered down to a life he clearly wanted to leave? Dean pummelled again at the light of the doorway and then slid down it, groundwards, pressing his face into the earth.
Suddenly, he heard Charlie cry out.
He lifted his head. The door was open, and there Sam was inside it, his stupid brother, not dead or dying or evaporating in a haze of light, but positively glowing nonetheless, beaming the kind of big dopey smile that Dean hadn’t seen on his brother’s face in - well, in forever, if he started to think about it.
“Charlie,” Sam said, and Dean felt himself puffing up in overlooked outrage even as Sam continued to speak, “I have no idea how you got him here but honestly, thank God that you managed it.”
Dean caught Charlie’s baffled glance as Sam continued, “Dean. I’ve done it. Man. I’ve done it. It’s done.”
The weight that had begun to lift out of Dean’s chest settled itself back over him with crushing immediacy. “Done what? Sam - if you -” He found himself grasping for the words. “You don’t have to die.”
“What? No, you idiot,” and now Sam was grabbing at his sleeve, pulling him upright and tugging him into the church. “Charlie, come on.”
“Duuuuude,” breathed Charlie as they entered - and yeah, Dean was with her. The place might be small and outwardly unspectacular but inside there was something… kind of wonderful going on. The whole church was bathed in gold, glowing from floor to ceiling with a radiance that acted like balm, seeping its way into Dean’s tired, tense muscles and unknotting them in a welcome release. Even the Mark’s constant tingle, the quick hard pulse of violence under his skin, seemed to be dampened by the atmosphere.
There was an altar, with a cup on it, small and innocuous enough. But in the light, everything seemed different, sacred, somehow gilded with hope. And Sam was in the centre of it, face radiant, even his stupid hair seeming to emanate some kind of… holiness. Oh God. Dean was definitely dreaming. This was all too weird.
Sam stepped towards the altar, picked up the cup.
Dean caught a glimpse of the liquid slopping viscous inside. “Oh no,” he said - almost mechanically, because he knew he had to.
It seemed like it was impossible to get really anxious, in here. It was like the best kind of trip, the kind where everything seemed awesome and positive and you just couldn’t feel bad, no matter how much you knew in the rational part of you that the monsters were out there and you had to deal with them and life sucked royally, really. It was like that. Dean couldn’t feel bad about what he was looking at, when Sam was all golden and glowy and happy and the same ecstatic feeling was slowly suffusing into his soul.
But he looked at the cup and its contents, glinting dark ruby red in the light, and said, “Sam, though, really. Drinking blood? I thought we said…”
Sam was shaking his head. “It’s not blood, Dean. Or it is, and it isn’t. You know. Communion wine. And also. The blood of Christ.”
Dean tried to think of a way in which he could convey his scepticism about this without hurting Sam’s feelings.
“Anyway, I’m not going to drink it. You are.”
Say what? This was definitely harshing Dean’s buzz. He shook his head, trying to knock out some of the numbness that the gold and the glowy seemed to be laying on him, trying to formulate an argument about how crazy Sam sounded. “I don’t -“
“Look, Dean,” Sam said, fond and exasperated. “This is how we do it, you fool.”
“Hey -“
“Please. For once in your life. Just listen to me. Just… shut up.”
Surprising himself, Dean did.
“This is how we do it, Dean. How we get rid of the Mark of Cain. Don’t you see? This stuff, in this cup, in this place, it’s like… essence of holy. It can purify anything. And you can drink from it. Right now. Go on.”
Sam picked up the cup from the altar, stepped forward, holding it up.
Behind Dean, Charlie coughed.
“Isn’t… I mean… don’t you have to earn that?”
Sam looked at her. “That’s what we just did. I mean. What I just did, I guess. There were three trials. The beast. The castle. The thorns. You guys didn’t see those, I guess. It doesn’t matter. There were trials and I passed them and I’m here and I’ve earned this. And, you know. I’m giving it to Dean.”
“Hey, Sammy, no,” Dean said, and Sam was gazing at him tired and fond.
“Seriously, dude. Shut up and drink.”
So Dean did. He reached forward and took the cup, felt the cold metal of it against his palms. And he lifted it to his mouth and tried not to think too hard about the whole blood/wine conundrum, just tipped back his head and drank.
He wasn’t sure if this was a ‘down the hatch’ scenario or a ‘polite sip’ scenario, so he just kept on chugging, let it run down his throat, felt it burn warm into his stomach until it was gone. And yeah, it didn’t taste like blood - which was good, he supposed - but it didn’t quite taste like wine either, not like he drank much of that. This felt brighter and sharper than anything he could remember, felt like it might be cleaning him up from the inside out.
“Look! Look at your arm,” Sam said, choked.
So Dean did, just in time to see the Mark flare golden and float away, dispersing particles into the general glow. And the pain of it vanished also: the sick nasty bloodlust that had been tugging at him since he took it, the sour taint that had been slowly poisoning his view on the world. He felt, suddenly, like himself again, not perfect (not really) and not without painful memories, but lighter, stronger, like maybe he could be happy again.
He looked again at his forearm, bare and back to normal at last. And he looked up at Sam, who was smiling for real this time, with none of the strain or the tightness round the eyes that he’d been wearing even that first time he “cured” Dean back in the bunker with the blood. This was different. This was the real thing.
“Hey. You did it, Sam,” Dean said. There was a catch in his voice.
Sam nodded, grinned. “Yeah. I know.”
And then, it seemed suddenly necessary that Sam know something.
“No,” Dean said. “Not curing me, though, I mean.”
Sam frowned.
“You did it, that stupid quest. Like…” Dean gestured vaguely with his hand, trying to conjure up the intensity of that moment in the hotel corridor, the painful shine in Sam’s feverish eyes and the dawning realisation that his little brother had felt tainted for the whole of his life. “You know. Knights of the Round Table. ‘I could never go on a quest like that.’ So. Turns out you could. And you did. You know.”
He felt foolish saying it, but also like it was important, that Sam needed to be confronted with the truth of the matter straight out, so he couldn’t pussy around it or deny it and keep feeling bad. “You are… you know. Pure. After all.”
Sam’s face tightened and for a sick moment Dean thought that was it; that he’d managed to say something so inappropriate that the brief moment of Sam’s sunshine happiness had already cut short. But then his brother’s features were trembling, slackening, and “Oh hey, man,” Dean said, moving forward to rest a hand on his brother’s shoulder as Sam started to cry. “Hey.”
He looked over at Charlie, who was crying, too, eyes big and luminous in the fading light of the chapel. “Sorry,” he mouthed, and she rolled her eyes. “It’s beautiful,” she said, silent, teasing, but serious too.
“I’m sorry,” said Sam, hiccupping.
“Hey,” Dean said. “You did good. It’s OK.”
Then Sam lifted his head, breathed a sigh. He pointed towards the open door.
Silhouetted bright against the dark, Dean saw the shape of an enormous stag.
“Heeeey,” said Charlie happily. “Our saviour returns!”
“Literally,” said Sam with a watery grin.
“I don’t get it,” said Dean.
“He’s a good guy, trust me,” Charlie said. “I guess… we should follow him again?”
So they did it, almost floating on their giddy relief and laughter, following the stag’s sure and silent progress through the trees. And finally, they heard noise in the woods before them, and saw the bright, artificial colours of everyone’s tents.
They emerged into the camp to find everybody in the process of waking, shucking on boots and brushing their teeth and sizzling bacon over the fire.
“Hey, Charlie,” grinned a bespectacled guy with a ponytail. Larry, Sam thought he might be called. “Where did you guys get to? We tried to wake you up for breakfast, but you weren’t in your tents. I think you missed all the sausages. There might still be some beans.”
“You tried to wake us up… this morning?” Charlie said.
“Sure,” said Larry. “About an hour ago. Anyway it’s great that you’re here now. We need to plan today’s action.”
Sam left them to their discussion, caught Dean’s eye and headed alongside him back to their tent.
“Is that regulation armour?” asked a woman, gazing admiringly at the shiny breastplate of Sam’s new suit.
Sam shook his head. “I don’t know,” he told her. “I’m new at this kind of thing.”
Back in the privacy of their canvas bedroom, the two of them took a silent moment to relax, reassess. Here they were. Nothing broken. Nobody lost. And the Mark, gone forever. Dean couldn’t believe it, kept looking incredulous down at his arm again. Still gone. And he knew it, really, could feel it in the lightness of his step and the lift of his heart.
“Sam,” he said. “You’re my hero.”
“Shut up, dude,” said Sam. And smiled.