AT LAST

[chibifrieza]

IT IS COMPLETE

Title: Poetic Justice
Fandom: Supernatural
Word Count: 8790
Warning: Poetry
Notes: Kripke's, not mine, etc.... This came about as a result of a truly impressively mutated prompt thread over at maychorian's party, which at this point has pretty much run its course, but what a course it was. :D Anyway, I somehow found myself volunteering to write a fic in which Team Free Will is cursed to speak in a different poetic form/mode every day for a week. That was on Thursday. I finished this morning. It's in eighteen parts over there, but that's just ridiculous, plus I am stupidly proud of this (and have made tiny edits), so here you go.

Further notes on the poetry after the fic, under the cut, in case anyone's interested.

*

In general, Sam and librarians got on fine. Dean and librarians, on the other hand... well, it was kind of an oscillatory phenomenon. Either he flirted with them and they fell all over him, or he did not, and they took exception to absolutely. Everything. Granted, Dean was inclined to behave in a decidedly less-than-library-appropriate manner when actually in a library, so Sam had to admit that the censure was warranted.

Like when Dean figured out a critical piece of This Week’s Puzzle and started swearing volubly in full hearing of a kindergarten class on a tour. That was a well-deserved ejection. Unfortunately, it left Sam with the remainder of the research.

Pretty much every time Dean behaved inappropriately in a library, actually, Sam ended up paying for it somehow.

Take this morning, for example. Castiel had tagged along, in case Sam needed help deciphering symbols, and Dean was supposed to be looking into death records, except that he’d decided that tapping his pencil on the table and humming AC/DC while doing so was a good idea.

Librarians had to have arcane powers, Sam reflected, as this one materialised at Dean’s elbow, Librarian-Face set to maximum. They came out of nowhere and they blindsided you and they grabbed you by the ear and tossed you out when you hadn’t even been doing anything wrong. Or, well, okay, that was one time. But seriously. Librarians. There was a reason Sam was so respectful of their domain.

“Sir, this is a library. I have to ask you to keep the noise down.” This one even had the spectacles, though she couldn’t have been over thirty, with wavy brown hair pulled back from a stern but very pretty face. Dean grinned up at her appealingly.

“Aw, baby, don’t be like that.”

There was a third category of librarians, actually: the ones who took offense at Dean’s flirting as well as his lack of library etiquette.

This one fell into that third category.

“Watch your tone,” she snapped quietly, “and keep it down.”

It wasn’t that Dean was completely unaccustomed to being shot down, but he didn’t tend to take it lying down. So to speak. “Hey, come on,” he protested, lowering his voice to match hers. “Don’t gotta get all pissy on me. Face like that, you shouldn’t waste it by frowning.”

Apparently it was possible for her to freeze up even further. Sam would have sworn the temperature dropped a few degrees, the glare that came out of her.

“You,” she hissed, “are unbelievably boorish. You could stand a culture shock, if anyone could make you pay attention long enough.” She closed her eyes, drew in a sharp breath through her nose, and then fixed him with those killer brown librarian eyes once more. “Out of my library, now, and take your miscreant friends with you!”

There was absolutely no brooking that tone, and Sam hustled himself and Cas out of the library alongside Dean.

“That was unfair of her,” Castiel observed. “Even Dean’s behaviour shouldn’t have caused him to be forced to leave.”

Dean seemed unconcerned. “Whatever, I got what I went in for.” He waved his handwritten list in the air.

“You’d be the only one,” Sam couldn’t help remarking, a little crabbily. “Now we have to wait until tomorrow. That library is the only one in the state with the volumes I need.”

“You have to wait until tomorrow. Which means you can help me cross-reference this list, right?”

Sometimes, it was just not worth the trouble of arguing with Dean.

Cas pushed off on angel errands after it got dark, and shortly afterwards, Sam called it a night.

“I’ve had it with this list. None of these names are correlating.”

“Maybe we’ll figure it out once you find those symbols,” Dean suggested. Sam didn’t even bother replying, just retreated into the bathroom to brush his teeth, then shucked his jeans and crawled straight into bed.

He dreamed uneasily of librarians.

*

In the morning, Sam woke up still crabby. As neither of them was a morning person, nobody spoke until Castiel joined them suddenly, as they were about to leave for the diner down the street.

“’Morning, Castiel,” Sam greeted him blearily.
“We’re gonna go get breakfast;
do you want to come?”

“I don’t need to eat,
but I like your company,
so I might as well.”

Dean threw him an odd look.

“What’s got into you?
Kind of an overshare, there;
we already know.”

Castiel produced his signature head-tilt and made no reply. Sam shrugged and led the way out of the room.

At the diner, Dean brightened. Food was pretty surefire that way. When the waitress came along, he gave her a genial smile.

“Hey, sweetheart. Coffee,
two eggs over medium,
hash browns and sausage.”

She smiled back as she nodded and jotted down his order, then turned to Castiel.

“Thank you for asking,
but I will not be eating.
I am not hungry.”

“Oh, sure,” she said, and turned to Sam.

“I’ll just have pancakes,
and can I get strawberries?
Oh, and coffee, too.”

After the waitress left, Dean raised his eyebrows at Sam.

“Strawberries? Really?
I thought you grew out of that
when you were, like, six.”

“Shut up, Dean, okay?
Whether you get it or not,
I like strawberries.”

The waitress returned presently with their coffee, and Dean grinned at her again.

“Thank you very much.
We really appreciate
the hard work you do.”

She flushed a little and went away smiling. Sam took his turn with the eyebrows.

“Seriously, dude?
That’s a little overboard
even for you, man.”

Dean scowled.

“Shut up. It was like,
I was just gonna thank her,
but I couldn’t stop.”

Three seconds later, it clicked. Sam groaned and put his face in his hands.

“What, dude? What is it?
There something I’m missing, here?
Talk to me, Sammy.”

Sam just shook his head, going back over what he could remember of what they’d all said so far. Yeah. Yeah, he was pretty sure he was right. He sat up straight and began gesturing before he even had his mouth open.

“Listen to me talk.
Hear how my speech is arranged?
Notice anything?”

Dean wasn’t an idiot. And much as he’d despised high school English (“Seriously, why would anyone write an entire play about a dude who does nothing except whine about how much his life sucks? Just man up and kill the bastard”), he hadn’t come away from it without retaining a thing or two. After a moment, his face assumed the flat blankness of disgusted disbelief.

“Are you kidding me?
Something’s forcing us to speak
only in haiku?”

Castiel looked back and forth between them.

“I’m not following.
This is not a word I know.
What is a haiku?”

Dean gestured to Sam, who obligingly explained.

“It’s a three-line poem
where the syllables number
five, seven, and five.”

Castiel nodded.

“Now I understand.
We have been constrained to speak
all in poetry.”

“Question now is,” Dean broke in, “why?”
Who did we piss off lately
that likes poetry?”

Sam and Castiel simply looked at him. Honestly, it was no wonder people assumed that Sam was the brains of the operation.

*

Back at the library, Dean stormed the main desk. In a stroke of good fortune, the librarian from yesterday was there, busy with filing. She looked up as he approached, and smiled. It wasn’t a very nice smile.

“All right, lady,” Dean said, keeping his voice low, “fine.
I think you’ve made your point now.
Make it go away.”

She laughed, and it was even more unpleasant than her smile. “Oh, I don’t think so. I think that you need a little more... education.”

Dean’s face went red, and the strain not to speak was visible - he clearly wanted to tell her off, but a) it wouldn’t help his case, and b) he’d have to do it in haiku.

Sam stepped in.

“How much longer, then?
Or are we stuck with haiku
indefinitely?”

“Oh, not indefinitely.” She smirked. “And not haiku. Not beyond today, anyway. I’ve given you a week. I hope it... broadens your perspectives somewhat.”

Sam forebore to mention that they all had pretty broad perspectives, actually; an angel and two demon-hunters, one of whom had been through English 101, thanks, and had about all the poetry exposure he ever cared to have.

Clearly he was in for more. Great.

She didn’t kick them out again, at least, for which Sam was profoundly thankful. He and Dean each took a volume, and Castiel sat between them, peering back and forth in case he could catch something they couldn’t. They worked mostly in silence.

Then Sam found something, announcing his discovery with a sharply indrawn breath, and shortly afterward they left the library. Any further casework could be undertaken from the motel room, without the risk of further upsetting a hair-trigger librarian, or, worse, being overheard speaking in poetry by other patrons.

Back at the motel, Dean produced the list he’d compiled. They were unsolved murders, dating back to the late 1970s, all women, no other apparent commonalities. The signature: a mark cut into the foreheads of the victims. There were three different marks, in fact, and the pattern of which victim was given which mark had been apparent, but, thus far, inexplicable. Sam had finally found a match for all three.

“Okay, check it out.
Seasonal indicators,
meaning: sacrifice?”

“Very possible.” Castiel peered over Sam’s shoulder.
“But why are there only three?
Why not use all four?”

“Winter’s been left out.
Maybe Winter’s deity’s
easily appeased.”

They talked in circles for some time before Dean had had enough.

“We’re getting nowhere.
We’ve still got a few more days
to figure this out.”

It was true enough; from what they’d put together, the next victim wouldn’t be taken for another five days. There was still urgency, but they needed a break, and they could afford one for a change. Sam ordered pizza over the internet, and smiled politely at the delivery boy instead of actually thanking him. He hoped he’d come across as cripplingly shy, rather than rude, because taking seventeen syllables to thank your pizza guy was just not worth the effort.

That night, Sam fell asleep hoping that tomorrow would be something a little less ridiculous.

*

His hopes were dashed upon stepping out of the bathroom and finding his brother awake.

“So help me,” said Dean, “if it’s limericks today,
I’m hunting that bitch down, and she will pay.”

Realisation crossed his face, followed closely by disgust.

“I guess,” Sam hazarded, “we say as little as we can
to anyone who isn’t us. Aw, man.”

Castiel arrived just then with diner take-out: strawberry pancakes for Sam, eggs, bacon and hash browns for Dean, and two tall paper cups of coffee.

“The diner people looked at me as though
I were some kind of madman, but I know
you two would not have wished your plight to be
observed by anyone aside from me.”

Dean came forward and wordlessly accepted his breakfast, utmost gratitude written plainly all over his face. Sam was moved to speech; he couldn’t stay silent in the face of this kind of selflessness. Although, to be sure, Castiel was demonstrably unconcerned by how people saw him most of the time. Still, it saved them a huge nuisance and embarassment.

“Thanks, Castiel. I don’t know what to say.
I’d rather not go anywhere today.”

“We might not have to,” Dean interjected, having ingested just enough caffeine to humanise him. “It depends how far
we get today, and who our bad guys are.”

At least they were definitely done with the library for the time being.

*

That day, they figured out the whole pattern. The sacrificial victims had been killed in a rotating schedule from year to year: spring of one year, summer of the next, and finally autumn, followed by a victimless year. It was Dean who pointed out that those were leap years, but nobody could figure out the significance of that.

“There’s an extra day in there; it may
be that a human’s only worth one day.”

“Very funny, Dean. Although I guess
it makes about as much sense as the rest.”

“Fascinating. You proved with that line
that assonance instead of rhyme is fine.”

“Can we please stay on topic, Castiel?
Progress aside, this isn’t going well.”

There was leftover pizza from last night, and they gnawed on it for lunch while mulling over the leap year gap. The symbols had been old Celtic, and combined with the seasonal sacrifices, there was clearly something at least loosely pagan going on. Nothing Sam turned up with his Google-fu gave any indication of what significance, if any, the leap year might have had for the ancient Celts in their rituals. It was all very frustrating.

“Let’s leave the leap year thing and just move on,
and solve this case before the next chick’s gone.”

It was all very well to say that, but it wasn’t quite that easy. They had four days until Beltane, and no indication of the identity of the next sacrificial target or the coven responsible.

“We’re going to have to talk to people soon,” lamented Dean.
“They’re going to think we’re crazy as a loon.”

“I’d say, let’s wait, see what tomorrow brings,
but likely we’ll be spewing weirder things.”

“With luck, we can just lurk around and spy,
leave interviews for if we come up dry.”

So they went for the nonchalantly invasive route, doing their just-out-enjoying-the-afternoon thing when in plain view, peering into and occasionally jimmying windows in the shadows when they came upon something suspicious. Castiel made an independent examination of the town, periodically checking back with the Winchesters.

They managed to find two initiates that way within an hour or so, which was kind of a pleasant surprise. Well, in an unpleasant kind of way. The implements and articles of their craft were above and beyond the usual pagan tools, and there was some seriously creepy imagery on the basement walls. The apparent depth of their involvement combined with the age of the couple - it was a man and a woman, married or, more probably, handfasted, and appearing in their late fifties - led Sam to theorise that they might be the High Priest and Priestess of the local coven.

Armed with names, they retreated to the motel room, where Sam went about the business of discovering everything possible about these people.

Castiel offered to go and get them supper from the diner.

“The people there already think I’m odd.
But after, I’ll resume my search for God.”

Twenty minutes later, he dropped off a large warm paper bag and took off again. Dean turned on the TV, and it was a relief to hear normal sentences. Sam continued his work, eating intermittently, soothed into a kind of scholarly trance by the drone of dialogue in the background and the familiarity of it all.

Then he found the newspaper article.

“Holy crap.” Dean looked up, instantly alert. “I’ve got it figured out.
This solstice thing. I know what it’s about.”

Dean inclined his head encouragingly, not wanting to interrupt with an extraneous couplet.

“She asked her husband if he’d like to marry
on - yeah - the twenty-ninth of February.
Apparently, the custom’s Irish, so
I think you see where this is going to go.”

Dean snapped his fingers.

“I read about that once, I think; back then,
that was the only chance to ask the man.
At any other time, she’d have to wait
for him to make the move to get a date.”

“So out of reverence for the woman’s right,
they forego sacrifice on Imbolc night?
Considerate of them, to stay their hand
one year in four. You think it’s for the land?”

“Oh, probably. That’s usually the goal.
Prosperity and stuff; that’s how they roll.”

Modern pagans actually practising human sacrifice were pretty rare, though. This group - well, pair, at least, since they didn’t know yet who else might be associated with them, if anyone - was already an anomaly. No telling what their actual goals might be. However...

“I think, in light of everything we’ve seen,
the victims probably were virgins, Dean.”

Dean nodded. Despite the varying ages of the female victims, there was one thread they now realised they’d missed: not one was married. And sacrificial victims the world over were preferentially virgin. At this point, it almost went without saying.

“I think we’ve done enough on this for now.
Tomorrow, we’ll hunt down the fatted cow.”

Sam sighed. His brother was as crass in poetry as he was in prose.

*

Neither of them said anything the next morning until they were ready to leave the motel. Then Sam braced himself and opened his mouth, figuring they might as well know what they were in for.

“Higgledy piggledy,” he began, and felt his face redden. Dean looked completely delighted and Sam kind of wanted to punch him.
“this is ridiculous.
Quit with the smirking; you’re
screwed same as me.

Counterintuitive
whackjob responses a-
side, I mean, who’ll take us
seriously?”

Castiel didn’t show up that morning. Dean and Sam did their very best to avoid speech with strangers, tailing their target couple to see who they interacted with. They had to split up fairly early on; exchanging a look, they agreed without words to meet up at noon and compare notes.

It was a Tuesday, but their marks weren’t working; it had been evident from some of the papers in their house that they’d retired some years previously. Sam followed the husband, whose name was Greg, on several more or less inconsequential errands - grocery shopping, the bank, a department store where he wandered apparently aimlessly and came out with beeswax tapers and nothing else.

He passed the library on his way back home. Sam noticed that he slowed on the way past, turning his head to look at the building. He caught a partial glimpse of Greg’s expression in the bare hint of profile he could see, and he shivered slightly. The man had a pleasant face, but that look... like a predator sighting prey.

He thought he probably had some news for Dean.

“Jiggery pokery,” his brother exploded as soon as he opened the door to their room,
“it is beyond me why
women need shoes so bad.
Mother of pearl.

I nearly vomited
involuntarily.
Did you at least get a
lead on our girl?”

Sam nodded, gesturing over at the laptop. He noticed a take-out bag on the table next to it, and looked inquiringly at his brother.

“Hippety-hoppety,
Sammy, you owe me; I
faked laryngitis to
feed you and me.

Though, it beats having to
feign being other than
heteronormative.
Marginally.”

Dean looked uncomfortable with that last revelation, and Sam was intrigued. This curse was occasionally making them verbalise things they didn’t quite mean to in the service of the poetry; as far as he’d been aware, Dean got enough joy out of making Sam uncomfortable pretending to be a couple that it made up for the impact on his pride. Apparently, that was not the case. Interesting.

Beside the point, however. Sam dug out a burrito and began to eat it one-handed while typing with his other hand; Dean sat on the end of his bed and craned to watch. He pulled up the library’s webpage and found their staff bios. As it turned out, the only unmarried librarian on staff was the brunette who had cursed them, and Sam would bet dollars to donuts she was the next target. He turned the computer a little so that Dean could more easily read the page. Sam watched his face as he read; shortly, his expression turned triumphant, and he threw Sam a grin and a thumbs-up.

Right after lunch, they went to the library. Again.

*

It took longer than they’d hoped to find their librarian - Emily was her name. They weren’t about to ask at the desk for her whereabouts, so they were reduced to methodically combing the stacks. Eventually she turned up shelving paperbacks in the Young Adult area.

Dean tapped her on the shoulder, and she turned. Her face lit up with malice-edged glee at the sight of the two of them.

“Hello again, boys. What can I help you with today?”

Sam figured there was no point beating around the bush, so he took the bull by the horns.

“Hickory Dickory,
Emily Flannery,
trust us as far as your
wits will allow.

Love us or hate us, your
monomaniacal
ass is in danger, so
come with us now.”

Emily gave a short, incredulous laugh.

“You’ve got to be joking.” Seeing their faces, she amended, “You’re not joking.” They continued to look at her seriously. “Wow, um. You really think I’m in danger.” She looked back and forth between them for a moment. “And this isn’t just a prank because you’re mad at me?”

Sam shook his head, felt Dean do the same in his periphery. They must have looked convincing, because Emily thought for a moment, blew a few errant strands of hair off her face, and then seemed to make up her mind.

“Okay. Well. I have another hour and a half here and then I’m off. Can you - can this wait that long?”

Sam looked at Dean. Dean looked at Sam. They shrugged, then turned back to Emily and nodded.

“All right. I’ll meet you in the atrium at three.”

*

They met up as agreed, and Emily followed Sam and Dean out of the library into the dazzle of the bright spring afternoon. Halfway down the steps, she stopped them.

“Wait. Where are we going?”

Dean turned and held up the motel key, jingling it slightly. Emily hesitated, suspicion growing in her face. Sam stepped back up toward her, still leaving her space, and held out open hands, non-threatening. He used his best pleading face, the one that had been working on Dean for as long as he could remember and had about a sixty percent success rate on other people. After a tense second, she relaxed, nodded fractionally, and followed the rest of the way down the stairs. When they got to the Impala, she got in without protest.

Back at the motel, Sam walked her through what they’d found out, laying out the information in as linear and convincing a manner as he could. He wasn’t worried that she’d discount the idea of dark pagan witchcraft as unbelievable; after all, she’d put a curse on them herself. He didn’t talk; he just fed her the articles and lists, let her read them, pointed out relevant bits. She was fairly quiet herself, and Dean just stood leaning against the wall with his arms and ankles crossed.

“Wait a minute.” She’d come to the printouts about the power couple. “Greg and Laurie Coleman? I know them. They’re library patrons. They donate regularly and they sometimes come out to events. They seem like really normal people.” She looked up at Sam, then at Dean, who raised his eyebrows and cocked his head at her as though to say, yeah, well, so do you, and look what you did to us. She looked a bit chagrined, and went back to her reading.

When she was finished, she shuffled all the papers together, handed them back to Sam, and said, “Okay, let me make sure I have this straight. You think the Colemans have been making seasonal virgin sacrifices and that I’m next on their list?” Sam nodded. “I love how you’re both so positive I’m a virgin,” she commented wryly, looking right at Dean, who winked at her. She rolled her eyes. “Whatever, I’m not ashamed of it. And if you’re about to suggest that I sleep with you to remove myself from eligibility as a sacrificial victim, the answer is no.” Dean’s face fell slightly, and he looked away.

“So what’s Plan B, then? Assuming I retain my status as a virgin, how were you planning on protecting me?” Sam exchanged a glance with Dean; they hadn’t really thought that far ahead. She couldn’t exactly stay with them, but neither could they plausibly camp out at her place. “You could stake out my house if you really wanted to,” she went on, “but I’m just going to come right out and say, you’ve done enough in warning me. I can take precautions.”

Something of his skepticism must have shown on Sam’s face, because she laughed at him. “I’m not your standard ignoramus, remember. I do have a trick or two up my sleeve. And before you try to tell me not to underestimate them-” Damn, she was good at reading faces. Or else Sam was just telegraphing like a signal tower, which was more likely “-let me tell you, they better not underestimate me.”

Emily pushed back the chair and stood up.

“Thank you very much, boys. I appreciate the warning. And if you wanted to check around at Beltane, I wouldn’t be insulted. But don’t worry about me, okay?” She made to leave, then paused and turned back halfway out the door. “I’m actually grateful enough that I’d reverse that curse for you, except that the reversal would take longer then the time it has left to run.” She winked at Dean. “Sorry.” And she was gone.

Sam stared at Dean. Dean stared at Sam. Well, at least Emily was informed about the situation. But as if they were leaving her to go up against the Colemans without backup.

Just then, Castiel showed up.

“Lippity loppity,” he announced gravely,
“hopefully you have had
greater success than I
in your own quest.

nevertheless, I’ll keep
searching in spite of the
infinitesimal
chance of success.”

Sam sank down in the chair that Emily had vacated and let his head fall onto the table with a thunk.

This was going to be a long couple of days.

*

Dean was already up and dressed when Sam woke up. Two days until Beltane, and a cocky librarian virgin sacrifice to keep an eye on.

“Sifting
oatmeal,

while
holding
apples
to
slice,

takes
horrible
efficiency.

Perhaps
lemons
at
night?”

Dean’s pained expression probably mirrored Sam’s own.

“Next
operation,

maybe
optimal
results
equal

taking
alternate
lateral
knowledge
into
next
generation!”

Sam couldn’t agree more.

It was a maddening sort of day. They’d figured out the essence of what was going to go down on Friday; they’d figured out who the main players would be. All they could really do at this point was gather any additional information they could get through observation. This involved tailing the Colemans again. They considered switching marks to minimise the chances of their being noticed, but Sam thought it would be better to keep it the same as yesterday, in case any patterns came up in places or people; he figured Dean had had the same idea, because they came to a silent agreement via hand gestures and eyebrows in a matter of moments.

Again, they met up at noon. Sam had witnessed three interactions that triggered his hunter instincts; Dean had apparently sighted four potential members of the coven they were now fully convinced did indeed exist. Not for the first time, Sam was extremely grateful that he and his brother had learned to communicate so well without words.

They gave it up for the day, ordered pizza online again, and watched bad TV all afternoon. Castiel popped back in around sunset.

“This
opal
doorway
archly
yawns;

inside,
splendour.

Diffidence
in
fecundity
follows
ingracious
courtesy
under
linden
trees,”

he announced plaintively.

“Finding
us
crowned
king

means
you

leave
it
for
elephants,”

muttered Dean.

Sam desperately wished for Thursday to come. Surely nothing could be more tedious than this.

*

In a way, Thursday was a reprieve. It was not, however, precisely the reprieve for which Sam had been hoping.

“Slarn crannelent,” Dean greeted him, in resigned tones, when he awoke.

“Felpish gretsch rescent?” Sam inquired blearily.

“Gault,” interjected Castiel. “Clorungent prist, indeltus airen.”

“Trell,” Sam acknowledged.

So pretty much it was a really good thing that they didn’t have anything pressing to accomplish today.

Aside from a quick swing past Emily’s to verify that she was still a free woman, they spent the majority of the day going stir-crazy in the motel room. Amazingly, Castiel stuck around all day; Sam gathered that his impaired speech was impeding his search, though he couldn’t fathom how that could be the case. However it worked, Castiel was there, and Sam found he enjoyed the angel’s company. It was somehow comforting to be reminded that even a higher order of being could be afflicted in the same manner that he and Dean could. It was also hilarious when he couldn’t hold himself back from commentary because Dean decided to bait him by turning on “Touched By An Angel.”

“Vithilten, borivus pomeril!” he declared urgently, when one of the angels had made an especially inaccurate statement. “Thurvid casteron, fainch, dan quoxit lermenath!”

It was difficult not to laugh out loud, but they managed. Mostly.

Sam found an Italian delivery place that took online orders, so they ended up with spaghetti and breadsticks and caesar salad, and a room that reeked of garlic. Partway through the afternoon, Dean discovered a Star Wars marathon that had been running all day. They’d only missed the first three episodes, which neither Sam nor Dean acknowledged as canonical Star Wars anyway. Dean nudged Castiel when he changed the channel just in time to see the Tantive IV fleeing across the dark of space, followed closely by the inexorable bulk of the Imperial Star Destroyer.

“Dolsh breskna,” he whispered gleefully. Castiel paid careful attention to everything that followed.

Altogether, it was a surprisingly good day.

*

The first of May dawned behind cloud cover, an inauspicious portent if ever Sam had seen one. However, it was apparently supposed to clear up around noon, which meant that any rituals being planned for the evening wouldn’t have to relocate. That would have been a complication they could definitely do without. Meanwhile, they had a pretty good idea of the location of the sacrifices from tailing the Colemans, so that was under control.

There was still Emily to consider. Whatever she thought she was capable of, there was a good chance it wasn’t going to be enough to save her.

With these cheerful thoughts, Sam rolled onto his back. Dean sat up in the next bed, snuffling a little.

“Similar to,” said Sam, “a restless
spirit I today am
waiting(not-patiently
as one dead and
fixated)for an
event terrible
and momentous,like
dying inevitable.”

Dean snorted.

“you
(always and again)
are(even now)
unnecessarily
verbose

but i agree”

After they were dressed, it was time to make plans. They probably both had a good idea of what needed to happen, but they had to make sure they weren’t on different pages. Really, with this particular volume, Sam thought before launching into a preliminary sketch, you never knew.

“If supposing first
lacking pointedly unintelligence
the cruel and human-killing
miscreants(a match or
for-Emily-more to capture)
to be,not

to be
stupid:closely to
follow that
singular furrow of not-earth
lain(deliberately)fallow
and with our hands
(bloodied as theirs
in spite of fewer years
held in them)keep
one flower
clean.”

Dean acknowledged that any plan had to at least start there.

“The fate of our librarian
depends on whether,moving in,
the kidnappers(killers,even)

are such as you and I can take
(overpowered back to back
yes, but dodging spells, we suck

at)and therein lies the rub:
the cultists sent make the grab
will curse before they break a rib.

and(seeing as we’ve had enough
of curses)we need more than stiff-
ened upper lips for this riffraff.”

Personal wards only went so far, and if they were up against a powerful coven, they were definitely going to need something more to ensure their own safety, so that they could actually do some good protecting Emily.

In a moment of serendipitous timing, Castiel arrived. Dean turned to him as one inspired.

“On my lips straining urgently
the short-and-sweet question of this
(entangled with intrigue)moment
is thus:can you
take down a coven at need?”

“GLADLY WILL I DO,” intoned Castiel,
“th)
isa
tl:e
ast
I ca

n!st
il
l m
anage

I WILL GLADLY DO IT

no
t.y
et a
m I

so
wea)
k

POWERS I HAVE

I HAVE THE POWERS.”

So that was settled.

Typically the victims disappeared in the afternoon of the day on which they were murdered; that gave them the morning to prepare. The three of them went first to the library, just for peace of mind. Emily gave them a wave and a cheerful grin from the other end of a long aisle; they didn’t bother trying to talk to her. Retreating back outside, they crossed the street to a small playground, currently deserted. Castiel perched on top of the merry-go-round; Dean and Sam each took a swing.

“Aside leaving historical
of badlywrong gone
operations proof(since
in existence are equal
numbers of otherwise
impossible likewise)
when Independently acting,”

began Sam,

“tasks multiple seemingly
and discrete potential
there is for:to take
custody discreetly of
she who is to die,
and also to effect
completely and forever(and a day
my comrades,and always)the
cessation of ritual killings by
those who plan to slay.

How(then)is this(now)to be accomplished?”

“I,” said Castiel, “having the
godgiven and not(wholly)
diminished capacity to
quell evil,will undertake
to render neutralandharmless
our antagonists.”

“if hoping to,” pointed out Dean,
"we were ever avert the
capture of Emily(to circumnavigate
complication)plain-seemingly
clear the solution stands:that
we brothers should the lady follow
and leave to the angel those who
court darkness,
communicating as may arise
the need.Then

encroaching on their subtlety
from either end
we may subdue the middle
and(preventing moreover
the ritual at all)accomplish peace.”

It seemed like the best option: split up, with Castiel, who was unquestionably better suited to following multiple targets anyway, keeping track of the coven and hopefully averting the kidnapping attempt, while Sam and Dean attached themselves to Emily after the manner of bodyguards as a second line of defense. Hopefully, they could make sure the coven never got near Emily, that Emily never got near the ritual, and the sacrifice never happened. Castiel could put the fear of God in the Colemans and their groupies, break up the party, and ensure the safety of virgins in the area henceforth.

It was really hard to make cohesive watertight plans when you couldn’t speak properly, okay, and Sam thought they were doing really well. Anyway, it was going to work. He was sure of it. That was even discounting whatever Emily had up her sleeve, so when you added that in, they were golden. It was still as nervewracking as any other hunt, of course. Because if they failed, someone was going to die. And people were going to keep dying. And it was very important that they succeed.

In other words, a fairly standard day’s work. Sam took the anticipatory adrenaline rush and made it work for him, as he’d been doing for most of his life.

He got up off the swing.

“First,” he said, “and most importantly I
think that in order
lunch probably is(since Dean,
I hear the melody of your
insides)and then

let’s get to it.”

Sam faked laryngitis this time, and they ate standing up in a parking lot under a rapidly clearing sky.

*

Emily took their company with good grace. That is to say, she laughed in their faces first, and then ignored them. Sam was just glad she hadn’t insisted they leave her alone. They shadowed her through the rest of her work day, hovering near the desk while she did paperwork, covering both ends of the aisle when she was shelving, and generally not letting her out of their sight. None of the known initiates showed up, but they couldn’t let their guard down; they didn’t know how many others there might be.

It wasn’t until she finished for the day and was on her way out of the library that everything started to fall apart.

Dean’s phone rang on the way down the stairs. He picked up the call without speaking and listened for a moment. His face grew suddenly tight.

“where

are you
and
are you

hurt?”

he demanded. Sam felt a jolt. Cas was in trouble? This wasn’t good at all. If they knew how to get the drop on an angel, they knew far more than any human should.

Dean ended the call.

“they lured him
and trapped him

in holy oil burning
(his power scorning),”

he announced grimly,

“and who knows how they knew
But I will do what I can do.

take care of Emily
(they will be coming)
we will be coming back.”

He took off running, in the direction of where he’d parked earlier, leaving Sam reeling on the steps.

For a few seconds, all he could do was watch his brother’s retreating back, his mind stuck in a loop of trapped him and they will be coming. Then he shook himself out of it - this was not the time to lose focus, dammit - and turned to Emily. She looked surprised, a little confused, but that was all. She had no idea.

There was no way he could explain, not today, not now. They needed to get off the street. He touched her arm to get her attention, then mimed driving a car.

“What? Oh. Yeah, my car’s around the corner. I suppose you’re coming with.”

Sam nodded firmly. Now more than ever, he was not leaving her alone.

She drove a yellow hatchback Honda civic, which was unfortunate. Sam folded himself awkwardly into the passenger side, shifted the seat back as far as it would go, and resigned himself to an uncomfortable ride. He was stiff from agitation and the cramped quarters by the time they got to her house, and when she pulled up in front of the small grey bungalow with its girdle of lavish shrubbery, he climbed out with a feeling of intense relief.

The yard looked clear, but he kept up a scan as he followed her to her door. When she put her key in the lock and turned it, Sam held up his hand and gestured for her to let him go in first. She rolled her eyes.

“Fine, whatever floats your boat.” She pushed the door open and made a sweeping gesture. “Welcome to my domain.”

Sam hitched the gun out of his waistband and shouldered the door open carefully. The front hall was clear; he edged around the doorway to the front room, and then a jagged darkness crashed down through him like a boulder before he even had time to register the sensation, and dragged him under.

*

Too much time had passed. He could tell without even opening his eyes. They’d outsmarted him, outmaneuvered him, and now they had Emily and she was going to die.

No. No, he reminded himself savagely, Dean had gone for Castiel, and Emily was no slouch, and maybe she’d make it out alive somehow.

Maybe Sam could still help.

There was a distant sort of ache in his head, but it wasn’t like the pain from a blow. Probably some kind of whammy had put him under, and that was why nothing really hurt. He should really get his eyes open soon.

He gave it a shot.

Oh, hey. There.

He was outdoors, lying on his back on what felt like grass, looking up at a still-light sky - pinkening on one side, like the sun was starting to set, with a few stars poking through the deeper blue off to the left. It wasn’t too late, after all. But he didn’t have much time. He tried to sit up, and succeeded with unexpected ease. There didn’t seem to be any lingering aftereffects of the... well, of whatever it had been. Good.

Sam got to his feet.

He was in someone’s backyard - Emily’s, he amended when he turned around, recognising the style of her house. He checked for his weapons: they’d taken his Taurus, but had missed the knife. All right. The ritual place was in a park, probably twenty minutes away if he ran.

He made it in just over fifteen. He was breathing hard, but not harshly; his passage through the beech copse, too small to be called woods, but big and undergrown enough to hide what happened within its borders, was nearly silent. Within moments, he came to the edge of a small clearing, almost at the very centre. He took a minute to assess the situation; it didn’t look good.

An altar had been set up in the middle, bearing a knife, a cup, a small cauldron, and a number of other things he couldn’t see clearly. Laurie Coleman stood near it, arranging objects with practised deliberation. Eleven robed initiates and Greg were ranged about the clearing, busy with tasks or simply awaiting the start of the ritual. Two of them, off to one side, stood on guard, and it took Sam a moment to realise that the dark shadow under the tree was in fact Emily, huddled at the roots and bound hand and foot. She didn’t move - couldn’t, Sam guessed - but her eyes were wide, darting around the clearing, catching the flare of the torch that Greg now lit. Her glasses sat crooked on her face, which was unbloodied, but bruised, and her clothing was torn. It looked like she’d given them a good run, he thought, but it hadn’t been enough.

He wasn’t sure what he could do for her alone.

For starters, he began working his way along the perimeter of the clearing, edging closer to Emily. Things appeared to be still in the preparatory stages, so he thought he had a little time.

So focused was Sam on the clearing and keeping his movements silent that when someone grabbed his arm, he almost gave away his position by attacking. As he jerked around, though, another hand came up to his collarbone, hushing and reassuring, and he saw Dean’s eyes glint in the torchlight. His brother leaned in and spoke quietly in his ear.

“when distraction there is
created angel-wise
you and I(swiftly)
to untie Emily
must make all haste.”

Dean drew back, and Sam nodded understanding. Together, they crept the rest of the way toward Emily, ending up situated behind the tree under which she sat bound. There was nothing they could do now but wait for Castiel to make his move.

They didn’t have to wait long. As the sky darkened, the robed figures formed a circle and Greg and Laurie raised their clasped hands in preparation. For what, Sam never found out, because in that moment, Castiel appeared in the centre of their circle, right next to the altar, which he toppled with a casual sweep of his arm. The torch flickered wildly and one of the initiates flinched visibly.

“you who this night here for
the purpose of bloodshed
gather,hear me:thus command I
you.the abominations you practice
you shall cease;henceforth
the blood of innocents
you shall spill no more.”

Castiel’s voice carried the gravitas of Heaven’s messenger, rumbling through the clearing and up to the evening sky. The coven stood frozen, shocked and cowed by his unexpected appearance and the command in his tone. Whatever tricks they had used on him before, they had no defense against this. Sam was almost transfixed, himself, but Dean tugged his sleeve, and they moved toward Emily while her guards were focused on Cas.

“Four-and-twenty the lives
devoted to your selfish perversions
and you shall not deprive another
(never again will you cut off another)
of her spark,God-created,not
yours to measure or to use.”

They reached Emily and went to work on the ropes, Sam at her feet, Dean at her hands. Her eyes flashed with hope when they appeared, but she made no move to give them better access, confirming Sam’s thought that she was somehow immobilised. When the bindings were cut through, Sam picked her up carefully and Dean drew his Colt, covering their escape with the only weapon he had. It was pointless and somewhat futile, since Castiel had the attention of everyone else in the clearing and a gun wasn’t much defense against witches anyway, but it was as instinctive and necessary to Dean as breathing.

As they retreated, they heard Castiel’s voice echoing after them.

“I a Messenger of the living God
thee adjure:never to practice thy false
crafts more,nor never thy morbid
sacrifices to make,nor...”

They passed beyond clear understanding, but the timbre of the angelic proclamation followed them for blocks.

About halfway back to Emily’s house, the paralysis seemed to lift, and she began to move in Sam’s arms.

“Hey,” she said in a hoarse rasp. She cleared her throat and tried again. “I’m okay, you can put me down now.” Her voice was still rough, but clearing up as she spoke. Reluctantly, Sam lowered her to her feet, holding on long enough for her to get her balance. When she stood by her own power, she straightened her glasses and looked up at him, then at Dean, and said, “I- Thank you. I can’t- I wasn’t expecting.” She took a deep breath. “Wow, I’m an idiot. Look, you saved my life. I can’t thank you properly for something like that.” She shifted her stance and gestured awkwardly. “If you’re hungry, I can offer you dinner? I started a crock pot this morning, beef stew, it’s probably still fine...”

Sam grinned and jerked a thumb at Dean.

“he,
always hungry and never
satisfied,probably
could actually
eat a horse.”

Dean punched him in the shoulder, hard, but he was grinning too, and shrugged, acknowledging the truth of what Sam said.

They walked the rest of the way to Emily's house together. Half a block out, Castiel appeared beside them.

“if you harbour still
any worries,

do not,for I have
the evildoers chastened
and they are subdued.”

Emily started violently when he began to speak, but when she registered who it was, she relaxed.

“I should thank you, too,” she said. “I have no idea what you did back there, but that was damn impressive.” Castiel inclined his head. “Do you want to come back to my place for stew?” He hesitated, and she said quickly, “Don’t feel obligated. Just, I wanted to show my appreciation. You know. For shaking up those creeps.” Castiel moved to stand in front of her, touched a hand briefly to her shoulder.

“You are
a daughter most precious and
beloved;they were
criminals against all things
good and pure.
Your life continuing
is thanks enough.”

She turned her head toward Sam in confused awe; when she turned back, Castiel had gone.

The stew was fine, as it turned out, and Dean had three bowls of it and Sam had one, and they slept on her couches because, she awkwardly explained, they didn’t have to but it was just hard to get over having your home invaded, and would they mind?

They didn’t mind at all. Despite the unusual size of the larger couch, Sam woke up with cricks in places he hadn’t known could crick, but he was okay with that. Emily was alive and safe. That made up for a lot.

*

There was a smell and a sizzle of bacon frying and the beautiful aroma of coffee when Sam woke up, early sunlight filtering in through the sheer front curtains. He sat up slowly, unfolding himself with care and precision, and finding out exactly how his sleeping accomodation had affected his spine. Glancing over toward the other couch, he discovered that his brother was absent. Then he heard a low feminine laugh from the direction of the kitchen, and sighed, shaking his head. He got up off the couch, popped his back in as many ways as he possibly could, and headed for the kitchen.

Dean sat at the tiny table drinking coffee, his attention focused all on Emily. She was clattering around cheerfully, checking the bacon, making toast, scrambling eggs. When she noticed Sam in the doorway, she tipped her head in the direction of the far counter.

“Coffee machine’s over there. I’ll be done in a minute here.”

Sam poured himself a cup, and went to join Dean at the table. He took a sip of coffee - man, that beat diner coffee any day of the week - elbowed his brother, and raised an eyebrow. Dean shrugged, and returned a hey, what can I say? half-grin.

Emily came over then and started dishing out eggs. Breakfast was mostly silent, and Sam was just as glad; he wasn’t sure he was keen on finding out what the last day of the curse entailed while in the presence of the one who had cast it.

The first to finish eating was Emily, though, and she sat back and eyed them speculatively.

“You know,” she said, “I never did get your names.”

Sam and Dean exchanged a look of dread, mouths full. Sam gave an internal sigh, swallowed, and prepared to take one for the team.

“My name is Sam,” and that wasn’t so bad, but oh, then:
“and this, the brother of my soul
the name written in the eyes of my heart
is Dean.”

That sounded... oh, man, she was going to think... well, talk about your unfortunate side-effects. Sam dropped his face into his hands. Then he felt a heavy pressure on his foot and, unbelievably, Dean jumped in to save him.

“Even though
the parrot of our mouths
is being forced to squawk
unfamiliar architecture,
the sky of truth is
revealed anyway.

Our mother dropped sparks
in an agony of white dress
when we were grasshoppers,
and since then our father
has drowned innumerably
and is no more.

We are the only two stars
in our sky
and the planets are against us.”

Sam hoped she could understand, through the filter of her own curse, what Dean was trying to say: We really are brothers, and we’ve been through a lot together, and we’re all we have left. He looked up cautiously, and was surprised by the stricken compassion in Emily’s eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” she said quietly. “I can’t imagine what it’s been like for you.” There was a somewhat uncomfortable silence, and then Emily shook herself and said, “More bacon?” and things were more or less back to normal. As normal as their interactions with her had ever been, at least.

Sam insisted on helping her clean up after breakfast, and she saw them to the door.

“So you boys’ll be moving on, then, I take it?” she asked. At their questioning expressions, she clarified: “This is what you do, isn’t it? Nobody just unpicks a coven while staying in a motel just for the fun of it. I’m right, aren’t I?” They nodded. She gave them another long look, then said, “Be careful. And I’m sorry about the curse,” she added. “I really am.” Sam shrugged; Dean rubbed at the back of his neck. “No, really. You didn’t deserve it. You surprised me, actually.” This last was directed at Dean. “Thanks for not trying anything. I underestimated you.”

She held out her hand, and they shook it, one after the other, and left.

The walk back to the Impala, which was still parked outside the deserted two-story where the coven had trapped Castiel, took almost half an hour. Twenty minutes in, Sam bumped his shoulder against Dean’s.

“So you didn’t
unfold her origami potential
after all.”

Dean shoved him back.

“Vixen.”

“Whiplash.”

Castiel was waiting for them when they got back to the motel room.

“Is the intention,” he asked, “to go
merrily and with the sound of bells
along the ribbon of tar,
or to wallow in honey
and victory for a while?”

“We’ll go merrily,” replied Dean.
“The honey here is in
a sealed jar and stopped with
intelligence.”

They checked out and hit the road. As Dean eased onto the highway, he glanced over at Sam and grinned. Castiel was in the back seat; the windows were down; the sky was blue, and they’d just saved somebody’s life again.

“Pretty effervescent sandwich, isn’t it, Sammy?”

Sam tossed his grin right back at him and settled more comfortably in his seat. As curses went, this one really wasn’t so bad. He was beginning to revise his impression of librarians.

~the end~

*

Notes on the poetry:

Day 1: Haiku. I found it very easy to work dialogue into seventeen-syllable snippets; if I'd been concerned with line breaks, it would have been much harder.

Day 2: Rhyming couplets. Iambic pentameter is about as easy as haiku to work into natural speech patterns, but the rhymes made it a bit trickier. Still not too bad, though. Had a bit of serendipity with "marry" and "February;" I think that couplet's my favourite.

Day 3: Double dactyl. If you're a stickler, you noticed that most of those don't adhere to quite all the rules of the double dactyl form. I didn't have enough proper names to work with, let alone double-dactylic ones, so I let that stipulation slide. There is one true double dactyl in there, though; I didn't completely cop out.

Day 4: Acrostic. Kind of exhausting. I had some fun with it, though.

Day 5: Sound poetry. I actually spent more time than I probably should have wondering if I had rightly understood the concept. It seemed too simple. At the same time... well, it's harder than it looks. At least, I found it so.

Day 6: e. e. cummings style: I haven't done it justice, and yes, I stuck to the less metrical facets of his style for most of the time. But it was extremely enjoyable. Either my brain has a natural bent toward the upended syntax or I'm doing it wrong. Whichever the case, some of it came far more easily than I feel it should have.

Day 7: Surrealism. This day was left to me to choose the style, because lassiterfics ran out of ideas. XD Again, a style I'm not sure I've fully grasped, but from the reading I did, it looked like fun. So I tried it. It was actually the easiest out of all seven, which part of me insists means I am in fact doing it wrong. Regardless, there it is.

I would never have thought to do this on my own, so I would like to thank lassiterfics for putting the crazy idea in my head. I'm ridiculously pleased with this fic; I hope you enjoyed reading it even half as much as I enjoyed writing it.

*

Cross-posted to spn_gen and supernaturalfic.