Fic: Battle Cry (Supernatural) Chapter 4/10
This is chapter 4 of the fic Battle Cry. Masterpost is here. Chapter 1 is here.
Title: Battle Cry
Fandom: Supernatural
Character(s): Sam, Dean, John Bobby
Pairing(s): Gen
Prompt: Loss of Voice
Chapter Word Count: 1857
Rating: PG-13 for some cussing and a wee bit of violence
Disclaimer: Not mine. If you recognize it, I had no hand in making it. I do not own any piece of the Supernatural awesomeness. It all belongs to Kripke et. al. I’m just borrowing for a minute.
Warnings: None
Summary: It’s supposed to be a witch. It’s supposed to be easy. Sam and Dean shouldn’t have to do more than help burn the body. But, when they are faced with an unknown monster, the consequences will be life altering for all the Winchesters. Will they be able to fix the problem, or will Sam have to learn to adapt to the newest challenge in his life?
Chapter 4: The Ritual
It was cold. That was the only thing Sam could think about as he stood with his back to the entrance of the cave watching Dean and John argue. The breeze brushed through the low hanging branches outside and chilled the back of his neck. Even his toes felt like lumps of ice.
Neither John nor Dean seemed to feel the cold. They were pressed next to one another attempting to read the scrawled ritual in the dim beam of a flashlight and yelling at each other.
“This says tongue, Dad.”
“I know what it says! What do you suggest we do? It’s not like we’ve got some magic wand to tell us which ashes are tongue. Hell, I’m not even sure which ones are witch ashes and which are reo.”
Dean eyed the pile, scuffing the edge of it with his boot. “There’s too much there for him to eat it all.”
Sam pulled his jacket tight against his body as another breeze tickled the back of his exposed neck. He fought off the urge to laugh. Didn’t they realize just how hopeless this was? There were too many things that could go wrong. They were working blind out of desperation. That never ended well for anyone.
“I know!” John shouted, shoving the notebook at Dean and staring down at the pile before him.
“Well, we need to figure something out,” Dean said.
Sam glimpsed John’s face. It was red and angry. This was not going to end well if he didn’t step in soon. The last thing he wanted to deal with was Dean and John at each other’s throats all night. It didn’t happen often, but the resulting hangovers were a pain in the ass.
He pushed off of the rock that he had been leaning against and walked over to them. He held out his hand for the flashlight. Dean looked at him startled, as though he had forgotten all about him, then shrugged and handed Sam the light. He held out the pad as well, but Sam ignored it and moved to survey the ash pile.
They had thrown the body on the back side of the fire, where the flames were still burning the hottest. Assuming the wind hadn’t gotten too far into the cave, they should be relatively undisturbed. The one thing the Winchester boys had going for them was the fact that the weather had been relatively calm the last few days. No storms, no howling wind. Things should have stayed fairly undisturbed inside the cave.
Sam shined the flashlight on the area, leaning close to see if he could spot any differences. It took a good minute, but he did see it. Leaning in further, he brought the light close. There was a small pile of ash that was slightly darker than all the rest.
John and Dean had come to stand behind him, watching. He motioned them to lean down, then pointed, first to the pile, then to the surrounding ash. Dean followed the motion of his finger, but shook his head.
“What am I looking at Sam?”
Sam took a deep breath and tried not to huff, afraid he would scatter the delicate piles in front of him. He tapped a finger at the corner of his eye, then pointed to the two different hues again. Dean studied it, but ultimately John was the one to understand first.
“He’s showing us that pile. Those ashes are darker just there. Is that where we put this thing?”
Sam straightened and nodded.
“I guess so. Ready to try this thing, Sammy?”
Sam scowled at the nickname but nodded anyway. He really wasn’t. The idea of scarfing down oily ashes made bile churn in his stomach and he was almost ninety percent sure this wouldn’t work. But he’d seen weirder things happen. He would try anything at this point and as this was the only idea any of them had, this was his only option. He had to know.
John dropped his backpack at his feet and kneeled down to look into it. He handed Dean a zipper bag full of herbs and a bottle of purified linseed oil. He brought out a large wooden bowl and a trowel and set to work gathering ash into the bowl. He set aside the large pieces of talon left and a few shiny pieces of leg carapace that had survived the heat. Satisfied that he had gotten all he could, he straightened up and took the bowl over to a stand of rock.
“Read the ritual out, Dean.”
Dean cleared his throat and squinted in the gloom. “The tongue, having been extracted is placed in a bowl made of yew. It is then anointed three times with the purified oil.”
John flicked the oil three times over the bowl, creating dark, spotty lines in the ashes.
Dean handed over the bagged herbs. “The holy herbs are then sprinkled over the tongue.”
John opened the bag and let its contents fall into the bowl as well.
“The mixture is then anointed again, while reciting the benediction. Where’d Bobby find this thing anyway? A benediction?” Dean said as he passed the notebook over to John as well. He held the oil in one hand and the book in another. Dean stood behind him so that he could shine the flashlight onto the page. Sam shifted on his feet, distinctly aware that he was no help at all in this particular scenario.
John tipped the oil, letting it flow in a small, trickling stream as he read out in his deep voice:
“Purga quod intrinsecus recurrat ablatum. Sit deleri et offerat quod invitus.”
He let the oil pour for another moment, for good measure. Sam eyed the concoction warily. It was dark and spotted, looking distinctly like wet concrete.
“It says you should eat it now,” John said. “You have to eat the entire thing.”
He produced a spoon and handed both bowl and utensil over to Sam.
Sam stared down into the bowl. He had to eat that? He shuddered, but barely hesitated. He plunged the spoon in and brought a giant scoop up to his mouth. He closed his eyes, took a breath, and stuck the spoonful in his mouth. It was gritty and somewhat slimy from the oil. It slid across his tongue like sandpaper and he nearly gagged when he tried to swallow it.
Wordlessly, Dean handed over a bottle of water. Sam took it and gulped down half of it in an effort to keep from cough ash everywhere. It wouldn’t work if he didn’t actually swallow as much as he could.
His face must have shown his disgust. Dean whacked him on the back. “Don’t quit. You’ve got to do the whole thing. There’s plenty of water, just take your time.”
But Sam frowned. He was going to take as little time as possible, of that he was sure. He gathered another large spoonful, and bracing himself, shoved that in his mouth too. The second spoonful was more difficult than the first. The water had moistened the first batch and now everything was sticking to the roof of his mouth like cement. He scraped off what he could and went for another scoop.
It took eight large scoops to get it all from the bowl to his mouth, and four bottles of water to get it all down, but Sam did manage it. When it was over, he sat against the cave wall, letting his muscles relax and swallowing to keep his revolting stomach under control. The ash sat like lead, but his mind knew what he had just eaten and was determined to rid his body of it.
John and Dean left him alone while he tried to collect himself. A hand on his shoulder made him crack an eye. “How you doing, Sam?”
Sam shrugged. He wasn’t quite willing to trust his stomach contents to stay on the inside yet.
“Come on. Did it work?”
Sam breathed deeply through his nose. He closed his eyes again, concentrating very hard on what he wanted to do. He wanted to say Dean’s name. It was going to work. He couldn’t help the small bloom of hope that he was trying hard not to acknowledge. He was going to open his mouth and say Dean’s name. Then they were going to hike back down from the cave, pack their bags, and get out of this town.
Another deep breath.
“Dean.”
All that escaped him was the hitching breath that had been his voice for the past two days.
Sam let his head fall back against the stone behind him, his eyes dropping shut. He didn’t have to look at Dean to see the utter disappointment in his face. It was writhing in his own chest. He clenched his eyes tighter, determined not to let the tears fall that had welled up at the realization.
He should have known.
“Son of a bitch!”
A crash made Sam flinch and he opened his eyes to find that the cave had been plunged into semi-darkness. Dean still stood as a shadowy bulk at his side, but he couldn’t make John out in the gloom of the cave. Dean fumbled with something, then his flashlight clicked on.
John stood on the far side of the fire pile, hands over his face, shoulders slumped. He didn’t move when the beam spotlighted him. Shattered bits of metal and plastic glinted on the floor where he had hurled his flashlight at the cave wall.
“Dad?” Dean said tentatively. They had seen John Winchester angry, but never like this.
John breathed deeply and scruffed his hands through his hair. The gesture seemed to take forever. Finally he turned to Sam and Dean.
“Right,” he said with a frown. “Pack this stuff up and let’s get gone.” His voice was unusually harsh as he ground out his words.
He marched from the cave without a backwards glance. Sam stood. John was right. There was nothing more they could do here. Maybe Bobby would have news by the time they got back to the motel. Either way, they were done in the cave.
Dean seemed unconvinced. “Sam?”
Sam paused from shoving empty water bottles into the pack and looked up. Dean was frowning at him, brow creased.
“This isn’t the end. We’re going to keep looking. Maybe this ritual just takes time to take effect.”
Sam went back to the packing with a shrug.
Dean scooped up the bowl and spoon from their place on the floor and came to stand in front of Sam, who was concentrating on not making eye contact. He didn’t know what he would say, even if he could speak.
Dean knelt down beside him bumping shoulders.
“I’m serious,” He said. “Even if this was a bust, we aren’t giving up. There’s got to be a way.”
Sam looked his brother in the eye. Dean sounded so sure. He could see the dedicated sincerity in his brother’s expression. Dean wasn’t going to quit looking.
Sam just hoped there was something out there to find.
<< Masterpost Chapter 5>>>
Title: Battle Cry
Fandom: Supernatural
Character(s): Sam, Dean, John Bobby
Pairing(s): Gen
Prompt: Loss of Voice
Chapter Word Count: 1857
Rating: PG-13 for some cussing and a wee bit of violence
Disclaimer: Not mine. If you recognize it, I had no hand in making it. I do not own any piece of the Supernatural awesomeness. It all belongs to Kripke et. al. I’m just borrowing for a minute.
Warnings: None
Summary: It’s supposed to be a witch. It’s supposed to be easy. Sam and Dean shouldn’t have to do more than help burn the body. But, when they are faced with an unknown monster, the consequences will be life altering for all the Winchesters. Will they be able to fix the problem, or will Sam have to learn to adapt to the newest challenge in his life?
Chapter 4: The Ritual
It was cold. That was the only thing Sam could think about as he stood with his back to the entrance of the cave watching Dean and John argue. The breeze brushed through the low hanging branches outside and chilled the back of his neck. Even his toes felt like lumps of ice.
Neither John nor Dean seemed to feel the cold. They were pressed next to one another attempting to read the scrawled ritual in the dim beam of a flashlight and yelling at each other.
“This says tongue, Dad.”
“I know what it says! What do you suggest we do? It’s not like we’ve got some magic wand to tell us which ashes are tongue. Hell, I’m not even sure which ones are witch ashes and which are reo.”
Dean eyed the pile, scuffing the edge of it with his boot. “There’s too much there for him to eat it all.”
Sam pulled his jacket tight against his body as another breeze tickled the back of his exposed neck. He fought off the urge to laugh. Didn’t they realize just how hopeless this was? There were too many things that could go wrong. They were working blind out of desperation. That never ended well for anyone.
“I know!” John shouted, shoving the notebook at Dean and staring down at the pile before him.
“Well, we need to figure something out,” Dean said.
Sam glimpsed John’s face. It was red and angry. This was not going to end well if he didn’t step in soon. The last thing he wanted to deal with was Dean and John at each other’s throats all night. It didn’t happen often, but the resulting hangovers were a pain in the ass.
He pushed off of the rock that he had been leaning against and walked over to them. He held out his hand for the flashlight. Dean looked at him startled, as though he had forgotten all about him, then shrugged and handed Sam the light. He held out the pad as well, but Sam ignored it and moved to survey the ash pile.
They had thrown the body on the back side of the fire, where the flames were still burning the hottest. Assuming the wind hadn’t gotten too far into the cave, they should be relatively undisturbed. The one thing the Winchester boys had going for them was the fact that the weather had been relatively calm the last few days. No storms, no howling wind. Things should have stayed fairly undisturbed inside the cave.
Sam shined the flashlight on the area, leaning close to see if he could spot any differences. It took a good minute, but he did see it. Leaning in further, he brought the light close. There was a small pile of ash that was slightly darker than all the rest.
John and Dean had come to stand behind him, watching. He motioned them to lean down, then pointed, first to the pile, then to the surrounding ash. Dean followed the motion of his finger, but shook his head.
“What am I looking at Sam?”
Sam took a deep breath and tried not to huff, afraid he would scatter the delicate piles in front of him. He tapped a finger at the corner of his eye, then pointed to the two different hues again. Dean studied it, but ultimately John was the one to understand first.
“He’s showing us that pile. Those ashes are darker just there. Is that where we put this thing?”
Sam straightened and nodded.
“I guess so. Ready to try this thing, Sammy?”
Sam scowled at the nickname but nodded anyway. He really wasn’t. The idea of scarfing down oily ashes made bile churn in his stomach and he was almost ninety percent sure this wouldn’t work. But he’d seen weirder things happen. He would try anything at this point and as this was the only idea any of them had, this was his only option. He had to know.
John dropped his backpack at his feet and kneeled down to look into it. He handed Dean a zipper bag full of herbs and a bottle of purified linseed oil. He brought out a large wooden bowl and a trowel and set to work gathering ash into the bowl. He set aside the large pieces of talon left and a few shiny pieces of leg carapace that had survived the heat. Satisfied that he had gotten all he could, he straightened up and took the bowl over to a stand of rock.
“Read the ritual out, Dean.”
Dean cleared his throat and squinted in the gloom. “The tongue, having been extracted is placed in a bowl made of yew. It is then anointed three times with the purified oil.”
John flicked the oil three times over the bowl, creating dark, spotty lines in the ashes.
Dean handed over the bagged herbs. “The holy herbs are then sprinkled over the tongue.”
John opened the bag and let its contents fall into the bowl as well.
“The mixture is then anointed again, while reciting the benediction. Where’d Bobby find this thing anyway? A benediction?” Dean said as he passed the notebook over to John as well. He held the oil in one hand and the book in another. Dean stood behind him so that he could shine the flashlight onto the page. Sam shifted on his feet, distinctly aware that he was no help at all in this particular scenario.
John tipped the oil, letting it flow in a small, trickling stream as he read out in his deep voice:
“Purga quod intrinsecus recurrat ablatum. Sit deleri et offerat quod invitus.”
He let the oil pour for another moment, for good measure. Sam eyed the concoction warily. It was dark and spotted, looking distinctly like wet concrete.
“It says you should eat it now,” John said. “You have to eat the entire thing.”
He produced a spoon and handed both bowl and utensil over to Sam.
Sam stared down into the bowl. He had to eat that? He shuddered, but barely hesitated. He plunged the spoon in and brought a giant scoop up to his mouth. He closed his eyes, took a breath, and stuck the spoonful in his mouth. It was gritty and somewhat slimy from the oil. It slid across his tongue like sandpaper and he nearly gagged when he tried to swallow it.
Wordlessly, Dean handed over a bottle of water. Sam took it and gulped down half of it in an effort to keep from cough ash everywhere. It wouldn’t work if he didn’t actually swallow as much as he could.
His face must have shown his disgust. Dean whacked him on the back. “Don’t quit. You’ve got to do the whole thing. There’s plenty of water, just take your time.”
But Sam frowned. He was going to take as little time as possible, of that he was sure. He gathered another large spoonful, and bracing himself, shoved that in his mouth too. The second spoonful was more difficult than the first. The water had moistened the first batch and now everything was sticking to the roof of his mouth like cement. He scraped off what he could and went for another scoop.
It took eight large scoops to get it all from the bowl to his mouth, and four bottles of water to get it all down, but Sam did manage it. When it was over, he sat against the cave wall, letting his muscles relax and swallowing to keep his revolting stomach under control. The ash sat like lead, but his mind knew what he had just eaten and was determined to rid his body of it.
John and Dean left him alone while he tried to collect himself. A hand on his shoulder made him crack an eye. “How you doing, Sam?”
Sam shrugged. He wasn’t quite willing to trust his stomach contents to stay on the inside yet.
“Come on. Did it work?”
Sam breathed deeply through his nose. He closed his eyes again, concentrating very hard on what he wanted to do. He wanted to say Dean’s name. It was going to work. He couldn’t help the small bloom of hope that he was trying hard not to acknowledge. He was going to open his mouth and say Dean’s name. Then they were going to hike back down from the cave, pack their bags, and get out of this town.
Another deep breath.
“Dean.”
All that escaped him was the hitching breath that had been his voice for the past two days.
Sam let his head fall back against the stone behind him, his eyes dropping shut. He didn’t have to look at Dean to see the utter disappointment in his face. It was writhing in his own chest. He clenched his eyes tighter, determined not to let the tears fall that had welled up at the realization.
He should have known.
“Son of a bitch!”
A crash made Sam flinch and he opened his eyes to find that the cave had been plunged into semi-darkness. Dean still stood as a shadowy bulk at his side, but he couldn’t make John out in the gloom of the cave. Dean fumbled with something, then his flashlight clicked on.
John stood on the far side of the fire pile, hands over his face, shoulders slumped. He didn’t move when the beam spotlighted him. Shattered bits of metal and plastic glinted on the floor where he had hurled his flashlight at the cave wall.
“Dad?” Dean said tentatively. They had seen John Winchester angry, but never like this.
John breathed deeply and scruffed his hands through his hair. The gesture seemed to take forever. Finally he turned to Sam and Dean.
“Right,” he said with a frown. “Pack this stuff up and let’s get gone.” His voice was unusually harsh as he ground out his words.
He marched from the cave without a backwards glance. Sam stood. John was right. There was nothing more they could do here. Maybe Bobby would have news by the time they got back to the motel. Either way, they were done in the cave.
Dean seemed unconvinced. “Sam?”
Sam paused from shoving empty water bottles into the pack and looked up. Dean was frowning at him, brow creased.
“This isn’t the end. We’re going to keep looking. Maybe this ritual just takes time to take effect.”
Sam went back to the packing with a shrug.
Dean scooped up the bowl and spoon from their place on the floor and came to stand in front of Sam, who was concentrating on not making eye contact. He didn’t know what he would say, even if he could speak.
Dean knelt down beside him bumping shoulders.
“I’m serious,” He said. “Even if this was a bust, we aren’t giving up. There’s got to be a way.”
Sam looked his brother in the eye. Dean sounded so sure. He could see the dedicated sincerity in his brother’s expression. Dean wasn’t going to quit looking.
Sam just hoped there was something out there to find.
<< Masterpost Chapter 5>>>