Ficlet: The Absence of Knowledge | R | approx. 4600 words
Author: rei_c
Title: The Absence of Knowledge
Pairings: Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Total Word Count: approx. 4600
Summary: Mardi Gras 2010, and Dean's not thinking about the festivities at all.
Warnings: General spoilers up through 2x10. AU. Incest.
Disclaimer: I own nothing, and any (and all) errors relative to vodou, hoodoo, French, Creole, geography, and/or canon spoken of herein are mine and mine alone.
Author's Notes: Um. This is not the most happy of stories. So. Keep that in mind. This ficlet occurs in real-time (!) and should be read with all of the KDSverse backstory in mind. There are lots of things that will probably not make sense otherwise. Also, as far as I know, the Endymion parade went off without a hitch. Much thanks to jellybean_slash.
For musical accompaniment: The Script - Breakeven.
--
February 16th, 2010. The fifth Mardi Gras after Katrina, a week after the Superbowl, and it's in three days. Dean's dreading it.
Oh, he loves New Orleans and he loves Mardi Gras, never really cared about football though he was thrilled when the Saints won, but it's Mardi Gras. The city's going to be crazy, the krewes have been going for weeks with the parades, and Dean needs a break.
"I need a break," he tells Sam, shifting to get more comfortable on the couch. It's a cold, wet, grey Saturday; Dean's acclimated to the heat of the South now and they've been having snow and ice the past couple days, so he's wearing thick socks and one of Sam's hoodies, long sleeves keeping his hands warm.
Sam laughs over the phone, to the point where Dean isn't sure if it's his brother laughing or interference with the cell signal. "You need a break," Sam says. "Dude, I need a break. At least you still have hot water and clean clothes."
Dean sighs, feels Ogou sigh as well. They miss Sam and Danny, even Karrefour and Ti-Jean, the way they all fit together. It's as though there's a great big gaping hole in Dean, right where Sam usually slots in, and Ogou's worrying around the edge of that hole and making it bleed, missing Danny as much as he does.
It's been a month since Sam got on an airplane and headed down to Haiti with medical supplies and bottled water, answering a call from the country's chief houngon for aid. Sam went and hasn't come back yet; Dean misses him but can't complain, can't be angry or upset or petty. Sam was needed, so he went, it's that simple. If Dean's French was better, if he wasn't needed here, in New Orleans, to help coordinate the effort from this side of the ocean, he would have gone as well.
"Do you think you'll be coming home soon?" Dean asks. He asks every time.
"I'm not sure," Sam replies. He sounds tired, worn thin and dry and cracked. Dean can hear loa in his voice, wonders what Sam's vévés look like. Knowing Sam as well as he does, Dean's pretty sure that the loa are the only things keeping Sam going anymore. It worries him.
Dean nods even though he knows Sam can't see him. "One of the Endymion krewe fell off his float today," Dean says.
Sam laughs. "Dude, for real?" he says. "Endymion? Wow. Wish I could've seen it."
Me too, Dean wants to say, but there's a certain sense of wistfulness in Sam's voice, that and the faint echo of Danny's longing for Ogou.
"Hey, hold on a sec," Sam says, then moves the phone away from his mouth. This happens every time and tonight's no different; Dean can hear a rapid exchange in a hodge-podge of French and Kreyòl, then Sam tells him, "Sorry, I have to go."
"I know," Dean says. "Be careful."
Sam breathes, low and steady, just for a moment, and says, "Love you, too," before hanging up.
Dean closes his phones and sits on the sofa, looking out over Dauphine and hearing the noise from Bourbon Street drift his way.
--
The next day, Dean deals with visiting vodouisantes, some hassles organising new Petro initiates, and a Rada petition for some Petro help up in the Pacific Northwest. It's a long day without much food or many breaks, so Dean heads for the kitchen the second he declares the day done.
He's in the courtyard sharing a bottle of after-dinner whiskey with Ogou when the badjikan knocks on the glass door and slides it open a crack.
"Got company," the badjikan says. "Waitin' in the living room for you."
Ankles popping, Dean stands up, leaves the bottle next to the statue of Ogou, and brushes past the badjikan. He's not sure who it could be; the badjikan was under strict instructions not to disturb Dean unless absolutely necessary. Dean tries to guess who it might be from the wording; the badjikan would have called any one of the practitioners in town for the festivities a guest or visitor, but company, that's someone who comes 'round to the house a lot, someone who probably has his or her own coffee mug picked out and territorially marked.
Dean's expecting to see Rita or Ethan, maybe Emil or JJ, but he stops, stunned, when he enters the living room and sees Sam standing there, waiting.
"You needed a break," Sam says. "And so did I." He pauses, moves out of the shadows, and Dean drinks in the sight of his brother, relieved beyond words to see that Sam's all right, worried beyond all measure at the way Sam looks as Sam shrugs and adds, "Happy Valentine's Day?"
He has to have lost thirty pounds and the circles under his eyes look like permanent bruises. Sam's eyes are haunted, filled with horrors that Dean can't begin to imagine, and the vévés on his forearms look as if they were carved into his skin with a knife mere hours ago.
Dean stands there, stunned at the change, but Sam moves, crossing the room and clinging on to Dean with more strength than Dean's ever felt from his brother before.
"Oh, my trezò," Ogou murmurs, coiling and circling in agitation.
"I thought, maybe," Sam says, and Dean hushes his brother, puts his hands on Sam's hollowed-out cheeks and pulls Sam close, pressing lips to lips and standing there, re-connecting. Sam lets him, which is good, but he seems a moment from falling apart, which isn't, so when Dean's finally assured himself that Sam's here and he isn't hallucinating, Dean wrangles Sam to the couch.
Sam immediately leans into Dean, curls up small and tight. Dean pulls Sam close, feels the dirt under his hands and realises that Sam didn't even take time to shower.
"We'll get you clean," Dean murmurs. "Danny must be going crazy, you all filthy like this."
"Just glad it's Danny and not 'Zulie Freda," Sam replies, tone about as loud. "Dean, I know it's Mardi Gras, but I thought we could go to Savannah."
A perfect idea. "We'll leave tonight," Dean says. "Once you've cleaned up and had some food. When." He stops there, can't bring himself to ask.
Sam knows what he means, though. "Friday," he says. "There's a plane going back with supplies in the morning."
Five whole days, and then Sam gone for Bondye only knows how long, again.
Dean will take what he can get.
--
He runs a bath for Sam, makes sure Sam's in it and scrubbing off the dirt before he goes downstairs and calls Marianne.
"Sam's back, but we're heading out of town tonight," he tells her with no preamble. "Is there anything you or 'Celine have that we can take with us?"
"Oh, child, give us ten minutes and we'll send someone over with a basket," Marianne says, and hangs up -- though not before Dean can hear her start yelling at someone.
Dean calls Ethan and Paul at the bar, then leaves a message for Rose and Kate, and then calls Rita's house and tells her, in no uncertain terms, to "keep this city locked down as tight as it'll fucking go."
"Papalwa," she drawls, "you ain't gotta tell us twice. Just take care of our poto mitan, understand me?"
"No shit," Dean says, and hangs up.
Someone behind him snorts and Dean whirls, sees Sam in an old pair of jeans and a t-shirt with more than a few holes in it. Dean always threatens to throw it away or turn it into rags but Sam won't let it go, says it's old and worn-in and it took work to get it that way. Dean's worried, though, because Sam also says it's his comfort shirt and he only wears it when he's feeling fragile and barely able to hold together.
The last time Sam wore that shirt, half the city was drowning.
He opens his mouth to say something but the doorbell rings, so Dean says, "Sit down," and moves to answer it. Marceline's standing there with a huge picnic basket in her hand, a dishtowel over her shoulder, and a smear of roux the colour of dirt down one cheek.
"Y'all be careful with the beignets," she tells him, handing the basket over. "They're fresh, so they're still hot. And there's some things in the bottom that'll keep 'til you get wherever you're going, but slap them in the fridge soon as you get there, y'hear me?"
"You're a doll," Dean says, bending down and giving Marceline a kiss on the cheek. She flushes, swats at him with her dishtowel, and takes off, probably back to her kitchen.
Dean turns around and Sam's there, leaning against the wall and grinning. "You got 'Celine to leave her kitchen two days before Mardi Gras," Sam says. "I'm impressed."
"Yeah, well," Dean mutters, flushing. "You ready to go? Need to leave any instructions with the badjikan?"
Sam shakes his head, lips pressed together as though vomit might spill out if he opened them. Dean knows that face, recognises it well, so he grabs his keys off of the hook on the wall and yells, "We're leaving! Call me if the world ends!"
He drags Sam out of the house, twines his fingers in with Sam's, and gets to his car faster than he ever has before. They stop for no one, barely even see anyone else, but Ogou's taking note of the people clearing their way -- Petro vodouisantes, every one of them. Dean will thank them later.
--
They get in the car, leave the city as if Damballah's sent a pack of snakes to bite at their heels. Sam has the basket on his lap but he falls asleep before they even hit Slidell, mouth open as he breathes. Dean doesn't have the heart to wake Sam up so he ignores the growling noises his stomach makes and passes the time talking to Ogou.
Dean has to stop for gas on the outskirts of Tallahassee; Sam wakes up in the glare of the station's lighting.
"Sorry," Dean murmurs. "We still have a few hours to get there. Go back to sleep."
"M'fine," Sam says, voice rough and thick with sleep, as he rubs his eyes. "Gotta piss."
Dean snickers, can't help it, as Sam first struggles to get his seat belt undone, then can't figure out what to do with the basket.
"Oh, fuck it," Sam finally mutters, and the electric tang of Karrefour fills the car so fast that Dean sneezes. "So impatient," the loa spits. It's Karrefour who gets Sam out of the car and sends him inside the gas station with strides that cover the distance in seconds.
"That ain't good," Ogou says, concerned now as Dean and his loa watch Sam walk through the convenience store and towards the back of the building.
Dean doesn't think it's a good sign either; Karrefour was able to mount Sam with such force, so quickly, and neither horse nor rider seemed in a particularly good mood. Part of that could have been the abrupt wakening, but the majority of it seemed older, deeper, long-carried.
"We'll work on that," Dean says to Ogou, though he says it loud and the words fill his ears like some kind of promise that someone else is making.
--
Sam's the one coming out of the gas station, Big Gulps and M&Ms in one hand, jerky and coffee in the other.
"I think I love you," Dean says, inhaling the smell of caffeine and chocolate. "But hold that thought; it's my turn."
When Dean comes back out, slides behind the wheel and turns the car on, the drinks are in cupholders, the foods on the bench seat between him and Sam, and Sam? The fucker's already asleep. Again.
Dean stares, then snorts. "You'll make it up me," he says, even as he's relieved that Sam's finally getting some rest. It might help with the circles under his eyes, give him energy and the willpower to go back at the end of the week.
"Put it that way, you should think 'bout waking my trezò up," Ogou mutters.
"Good call," Dean says.
He lets Sam sleep.
--
Dean takes the I-16 termination in Savannah to Gaston Street, then drives up Tattnall to Jones Street, slowing down as he approaches the townhouse to look for a parking place. The streetlights are good but it's ass o'clock in the morning and there's Spanish moss all over the place.
"Windy last night," Ogou tells Dean. "Let me look, I'll get you and m' trezò close."
Ogou's the hunter and Dean's ready for sleep, so Dean lets the loa see through his eyes. Together, they find a spot two car-lengths away from the front door; Ogou crows in delight as they park.
"Yeah, yeah," Dean mutters under his breath as he turns the car off and grabs the basket handle, pulling it off of Sam's lap and over the seat as he gets out of the Impala. "I would've seen it just fine by myself."
"Seen what?" Sam asks, waking up as the basket thumps to the ground and Dean reaches back in for the garbage. "Oh, we're here? Already?"
Dean rolls his eyes. "Just come on," he says. "I'm tired and I bet you could sleep some more." Sam doesn't look like he particularly wants to move, so Dean says, "There's a bed inside. Nice and big, and soft. You could stretch out as much as you want."
"Oh, masisi," Danny croons. "Sure 'nough, you know the way to a woman's heart."
Danny's the one who gets out of the car, but Sam's the one who grabs the duffles from the trunk. Dean's worried about all of the switching; it's not so much the ebb-and-flow of the loa that worries him, more the way they're the ones who get Sam moving, push and prod Sam into action. It's not like Sam to want to sit and do nothing, and the fact that Sam's acting that way makes Dean wonder what's really been happening in Haiti.
He doesn't ask, though. It'll come in time, when Sam's ready and not a second before, so Dean sends Sam upstairs to the bedroom with the duffles while he unpacks Marceline's food into the fridge. There's nothing else in the fridge, no milk, no bread, of course; Dean'll go out later and pick up a few things. Right now, though, after the eleven hour drive and a long day before it, he heads to the stairs, collapses into bed next to Sam and ends up tangling his limbs in with his brother's as he falls asleep.
--
Dean wakes up, cold. He reaches over and Sam's not there; for a brief, flickering moment of panic, he thinks he imagined the whole thing, wonders if he's finally gone crazy. Then, with Ogou snickering at him, Dean smells coffee and food.
He stumbles downstairs, yawning the whole way, hair spiked up and needing a wash, and comes to a halt when he sees the spread Sam's laid out on the table, complete with steaming mugs of café au lait next to glasses of juice and water.
"I was gonna go out," Dean says.
"I did," Sam replies. The toaster dings and Sam picks up two pieces, sets them on top of a pile already buttered and cut diagonally. "You needed sleep; I'm not the one that drove all the way here last night."
Dean shrugs and sits down, picks up a fork and gives the food his single-minded attention for a few minutes. It's good, hot and fresh, and not all of this was in the basket Marceline sent with them. "You taking cooking lessons on the side?" Dean asks, poking at some kind of french toast that tastes vaguely of oranges and is covered in cream.
There's a bowl of something else, something that looks halfway between grits and Cream of Wheat; Dean hasn't tried it yet but Sam's eating spoonful after spoonful of the stuff and ignoring the scrambled eggs entirely.
"Comfort food," Sam says. He fills his spoon yet again but this time he offers it to Dean.
Suspicious, Dean takes a bite and savours the taste as it bursts on his tongue. "S'different," he says. Before Sam's face can fall, Dean says, "Good. Just different. What is it?"
Sam grins, picks up a piece of toast and dips it in his café au lait. Dean grimaces and Sam's grin only grows wider. "Labouyi bannann," Sam replies. "It's made from bananas and plaintains. Comfort food, and," here Sam's smile falters, "it's easy. It's plainer in Port-au-Prince right now." Dean frowns, doesn't understand, so Sam says, "Impossible to find milk and spices. They aren't exactly a necessity when you can't even find clean drinking water."
Dean wouldn't think so, not when the people don't have roofs, not when there are still thousands of people unaccounted for and the outpouring of international aid is starting to slow down. He doesn't know what to say and so he doesn't say anything.
--
Sam cleans up after breakfast, loads the dishwasher and turns it on before he says, "Bed?"
"Bed," Dean echoes, and it's only in the 50s outside so it doesn't feel strange to crawl under a pile of blankets and cuddle tight with the weight of comforters and quilts pressing down.
They don't sleep, not right away, just lie, together, and match the patterns of their breathing while Ogou and Danny revel in the ability to touch one another.
"I don't know how long I'll be gone," Sam finally says. He speaks quietly, a night-time confession made in the height of the afternoon though it's dark with the curtains pulled and the door shut against light from outside. "And I'll have to go back more than just this time."
Dean closes his eyes. "You've talked to the chief houngon, then?" Dean asks. "He wants you to be there?"
Sam nods and Dean can feel the movement even as his chest begins to ache. "He hasn't said for how long but reconstruction will take years. I don't. Maybe a month or two a year for a while. Maybe more. We'll see how it goes." Sam pauses, adds, "And how hurricane season goes this year."
Since Sam brought it up, Dean asks, "What's it like? Is it as bad as they say it is?"
"Worse," Sam says, before rolling closer, pressing himself into Dean as if he can somehow find a way to burrow inside of Dean even more than he already is. "Dean, I've never seen anything like it before. I. I feel so fucking helpless. I'm just one person."
"Sure," Dean says. His heart is sinking. They went through something like this five years ago, after Katrina, when it looked like the people of New Orleans were the only ones putting heart and soul into reconstructing the city. Sam went non-stop for twenty hours a day, worked his hands down to the bone, and saved his tears for the privacy of their bedroom; Dean's sure Sam wasn't the only one. "You're one person. But Sam, one person can go a long way. And when it's you? You have hundreds of people here behind you. You have the loa."
Sam's breath beats out against Dean's skin, warming Dean and giving him goose-bumps with every brush of Sam's lips. "It's different in Haiti," Sam says.
Dean asks how, asks why, and Sam just shakes his head. Strands of his hair glide across Dean's arm. Sam's hair has grown longer but there are strands underneath with ends that have been crudely hacked away, sawed off. Dean wraps his fingers in them, wonders what kind of loa Sam's been calling down with his hair and why, what he's set them to doing.
"I can't explain it," Sam finally says. "It just is."
Haiti has worked its way into Sam's bones. Dean's known that, knew it in his gut the first time he ever met Lissa and knew it for a fact when he found out about Sam's connection to the memeres and Plaquemines. Sam's brand of vodou is old, older than any in the country except for what's lurking down in Buras. That's the vodou that came from Haiti, before it evolved and changed to fit the needs of its people, and that's the vodou that Sam's been knee-deep in since the first time he was ridden.
"They're our cousins, down there," Sam says. "Our brothers and sisters in the faith. And we do nothing for them."
"That's not true," Dean says. "I've seen the emails you send back and forth to that broker of yours. You send a hell of a lot of money down there."
Sam snorts. "Money. Money. I'm just another well-off white guy who throws money at a problem and thinks that's good enough. Like it absolves me of anything."
Dean could almost flinch with how bitter Sam sounds, how resignedly angry his brother is, curled up and frozen with tense hatred.
"Hey," Dean says, as soft as he can. "It's not perfect. But you have responsibilities here, ones that will keep you here. You're our poto mitan, not theirs. Sure, maybe we can do better but, Sam, you can't change the entire world. That's not up to you."
Sam shakes. At first, Dean thinks that his brother is getting ready to argue, then he feels the dampness against his skin. Dean holds Sam tight, lets him cry, and wishes there was something, anything, more he could do.
"Responsibilities," Sam finally says. "I'm responsible to be human. There are people there, Dean, people, like you and me, who have just lost everything and are sleeping on the ground while their mothers and fathers and children are still buried under piles of rubble. How can we, how are we supposed to, what's the point."
Dean thinks Sam's going to keep talking, exorcise everything he's been thinking and feeling, but Sam's stopped, has gone limp as if he's been bottling this up for weeks and now that it's out, that he's shared it, he's not capable of moving. Dean has no earthly idea how to handle this. What can he say?
"You doing what you can, trezò," Ogou says, tone gruff as he speaks through Dean, for Dean. "Ain't no one asking you t'do anything else."
"It's not enough," Sam says. "It will never be enough."
Dean doesn't know what to say to that. Neither does Ogou.
--
The next couple days aren't comfortable, exactly, but Sam's here and that's all that matters. They eat and sleep and have sex, and at one point they go out for dinner. Sam stares at the menu and murmurs something too quietly for Dean to catch. He doesn't eat, just drinks cup after cup of coffee and stares off into the distance. Dean takes the majority of his food home and watches in silence as Sam makes a cup of akasan and heats up the leftover griot complete from lunch.
It's as if Sam's not even here. Oh, his body is, but his mind is stuck in Haiti and the black magic loa are as well, carrying Sam across land and sea, cracking the edges of Sam's vévés even when Sam's doing nothing more than sleeping.
Dean doesn't know what to do. Ogou doesn't have any suggestions. They both think, in retrospect, it was a mistake to come here, away from everyone that cares and worries and might be able to snap Sam out of this.
It's too late, though; they drove back to New Orleans last night and Sam's flight leaves in three hours. Dean wishes he was a child so he could kick and scream and throw a tantrum at the idea of Sam being gone, again. Ogou's not pleased, either, Dean and the loa watching through the kitchen window as Sam kneels at the foot of Lakwa's courtyard statue and whispers a prayer.
"He been there before," Ogou says, strangely still and watchful. "What he seein' now, it ain't nothing the same, pro'ly."
"Been there before?" Dean asks. "To wherever in Haiti he's been at the last few weeks?"
The loa nods in the back of Dean's skull. "His maman took 'im, back when he was staying with her."
He went to Haiti with Lissa, and he stayed with her when he first got involved in the religion, before he became poto mitan. "With Marinette," Dean says. "Things were different then, all right." Ogou makes a noise of agreement and Dean watches as his brother moves from Lakwa's statue to Karrefour's, pausing as he bypasses both Erzulie's and Marinette's.
Dean gets goosebumps. Sam usually makes obeisance to Erzulie, even if it's short. Going from Baren Samedi straight to the loa of the night crossroads, from death to malevolence, it can't be a good sign.
"He's been visiting a hounfor down there?" Dean asks, something about the way Sam's acting striking him as odd. He's not sure why or what, exactly, it's probably something that Mathieu's konesan would pick out in an instant but Dean doesn't know where to start looking.
"Naw," Ogou replies. "It's too crazy down there to start calling down loa. Only ones he got down there are."
Dean cuts his loa off, wide-eyed as Sam presses a kiss to Karrefour's statue and then moves to kneel before Simbe. "Are the ones with their vévés tattooed on him. And I bet he spends all his energy keeping them in line, doesn't he, and that's before everything he's trying to do to help."
Ogou doesn't respond, which is an answer in and of itself. Dean's heart sinks; he knows Sam has to go back but he doesn't want Sam to go. He almost thinks it would have been better if Sam hadn't come back; Dean's more worried now than he was before.
He watches as Sam makes a complete round of the courtyard, even bending over to kiss the top of Marinette's statue, before he settles in front of Erzulie's figurine and curls in tight on himself. This looks personal, between Sam and his loa, so Dean leaves the kitchen and goes through the messages that the badjikan took for him while he was in Savannah. Rita's taken care of most of the problems that came up, kept an eye on the city during Mardi Gras, which means there aren't many things that Dean will have to deal with.
He's getting the beginnings of an idea, though, so he calls Rita, waits for her to answer and then says, point-blank, "Sam's leaving for Haiti in three hours. I want to call a gathering for this afternoon and I want every Petro in the city there, full-on vodouisantes and initiates, everyone."
Rita doesn't sound surprised. "Where we meeting at, papalwa?"
Dean worries at his lower lip for a couple seconds, then says, "Call the monseigneur."
There's a long pause from Rita's side, then she says, steadily, "This is serious, then."
"Let me know what time you settle on," Dean says, and hangs up.
--
Sam leaves with little fanfare, getting on to the airplane with a handful of other aid workers and all the supplies that will fit after a clinging hug that almost melts Dean's resolve to be strong for his brother. Sam doesn't look back when they separate and Dean watches only as long as it takes for the airplane to start taxiing out to the runway. Then he turns, checks his text messages, and drives back to the Quarter.
Mardi Gras is over. Dean has a meeting to prepare for and a city to mobilise.
Title: The Absence of Knowledge
Pairings: Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Total Word Count: approx. 4600
Summary: Mardi Gras 2010, and Dean's not thinking about the festivities at all.
Warnings: General spoilers up through 2x10. AU. Incest.
Disclaimer: I own nothing, and any (and all) errors relative to vodou, hoodoo, French, Creole, geography, and/or canon spoken of herein are mine and mine alone.
Author's Notes: Um. This is not the most happy of stories. So. Keep that in mind. This ficlet occurs in real-time (!) and should be read with all of the KDSverse backstory in mind. There are lots of things that will probably not make sense otherwise. Also, as far as I know, the Endymion parade went off without a hitch. Much thanks to jellybean_slash.
For musical accompaniment: The Script - Breakeven.
--
February 16th, 2010. The fifth Mardi Gras after Katrina, a week after the Superbowl, and it's in three days. Dean's dreading it.
Oh, he loves New Orleans and he loves Mardi Gras, never really cared about football though he was thrilled when the Saints won, but it's Mardi Gras. The city's going to be crazy, the krewes have been going for weeks with the parades, and Dean needs a break.
"I need a break," he tells Sam, shifting to get more comfortable on the couch. It's a cold, wet, grey Saturday; Dean's acclimated to the heat of the South now and they've been having snow and ice the past couple days, so he's wearing thick socks and one of Sam's hoodies, long sleeves keeping his hands warm.
Sam laughs over the phone, to the point where Dean isn't sure if it's his brother laughing or interference with the cell signal. "You need a break," Sam says. "Dude, I need a break. At least you still have hot water and clean clothes."
Dean sighs, feels Ogou sigh as well. They miss Sam and Danny, even Karrefour and Ti-Jean, the way they all fit together. It's as though there's a great big gaping hole in Dean, right where Sam usually slots in, and Ogou's worrying around the edge of that hole and making it bleed, missing Danny as much as he does.
It's been a month since Sam got on an airplane and headed down to Haiti with medical supplies and bottled water, answering a call from the country's chief houngon for aid. Sam went and hasn't come back yet; Dean misses him but can't complain, can't be angry or upset or petty. Sam was needed, so he went, it's that simple. If Dean's French was better, if he wasn't needed here, in New Orleans, to help coordinate the effort from this side of the ocean, he would have gone as well.
"Do you think you'll be coming home soon?" Dean asks. He asks every time.
"I'm not sure," Sam replies. He sounds tired, worn thin and dry and cracked. Dean can hear loa in his voice, wonders what Sam's vévés look like. Knowing Sam as well as he does, Dean's pretty sure that the loa are the only things keeping Sam going anymore. It worries him.
Dean nods even though he knows Sam can't see him. "One of the Endymion krewe fell off his float today," Dean says.
Sam laughs. "Dude, for real?" he says. "Endymion? Wow. Wish I could've seen it."
Me too, Dean wants to say, but there's a certain sense of wistfulness in Sam's voice, that and the faint echo of Danny's longing for Ogou.
"Hey, hold on a sec," Sam says, then moves the phone away from his mouth. This happens every time and tonight's no different; Dean can hear a rapid exchange in a hodge-podge of French and Kreyòl, then Sam tells him, "Sorry, I have to go."
"I know," Dean says. "Be careful."
Sam breathes, low and steady, just for a moment, and says, "Love you, too," before hanging up.
Dean closes his phones and sits on the sofa, looking out over Dauphine and hearing the noise from Bourbon Street drift his way.
--
The next day, Dean deals with visiting vodouisantes, some hassles organising new Petro initiates, and a Rada petition for some Petro help up in the Pacific Northwest. It's a long day without much food or many breaks, so Dean heads for the kitchen the second he declares the day done.
He's in the courtyard sharing a bottle of after-dinner whiskey with Ogou when the badjikan knocks on the glass door and slides it open a crack.
"Got company," the badjikan says. "Waitin' in the living room for you."
Ankles popping, Dean stands up, leaves the bottle next to the statue of Ogou, and brushes past the badjikan. He's not sure who it could be; the badjikan was under strict instructions not to disturb Dean unless absolutely necessary. Dean tries to guess who it might be from the wording; the badjikan would have called any one of the practitioners in town for the festivities a guest or visitor, but company, that's someone who comes 'round to the house a lot, someone who probably has his or her own coffee mug picked out and territorially marked.
Dean's expecting to see Rita or Ethan, maybe Emil or JJ, but he stops, stunned, when he enters the living room and sees Sam standing there, waiting.
"You needed a break," Sam says. "And so did I." He pauses, moves out of the shadows, and Dean drinks in the sight of his brother, relieved beyond words to see that Sam's all right, worried beyond all measure at the way Sam looks as Sam shrugs and adds, "Happy Valentine's Day?"
He has to have lost thirty pounds and the circles under his eyes look like permanent bruises. Sam's eyes are haunted, filled with horrors that Dean can't begin to imagine, and the vévés on his forearms look as if they were carved into his skin with a knife mere hours ago.
Dean stands there, stunned at the change, but Sam moves, crossing the room and clinging on to Dean with more strength than Dean's ever felt from his brother before.
"Oh, my trezò," Ogou murmurs, coiling and circling in agitation.
"I thought, maybe," Sam says, and Dean hushes his brother, puts his hands on Sam's hollowed-out cheeks and pulls Sam close, pressing lips to lips and standing there, re-connecting. Sam lets him, which is good, but he seems a moment from falling apart, which isn't, so when Dean's finally assured himself that Sam's here and he isn't hallucinating, Dean wrangles Sam to the couch.
Sam immediately leans into Dean, curls up small and tight. Dean pulls Sam close, feels the dirt under his hands and realises that Sam didn't even take time to shower.
"We'll get you clean," Dean murmurs. "Danny must be going crazy, you all filthy like this."
"Just glad it's Danny and not 'Zulie Freda," Sam replies, tone about as loud. "Dean, I know it's Mardi Gras, but I thought we could go to Savannah."
A perfect idea. "We'll leave tonight," Dean says. "Once you've cleaned up and had some food. When." He stops there, can't bring himself to ask.
Sam knows what he means, though. "Friday," he says. "There's a plane going back with supplies in the morning."
Five whole days, and then Sam gone for Bondye only knows how long, again.
Dean will take what he can get.
--
He runs a bath for Sam, makes sure Sam's in it and scrubbing off the dirt before he goes downstairs and calls Marianne.
"Sam's back, but we're heading out of town tonight," he tells her with no preamble. "Is there anything you or 'Celine have that we can take with us?"
"Oh, child, give us ten minutes and we'll send someone over with a basket," Marianne says, and hangs up -- though not before Dean can hear her start yelling at someone.
Dean calls Ethan and Paul at the bar, then leaves a message for Rose and Kate, and then calls Rita's house and tells her, in no uncertain terms, to "keep this city locked down as tight as it'll fucking go."
"Papalwa," she drawls, "you ain't gotta tell us twice. Just take care of our poto mitan, understand me?"
"No shit," Dean says, and hangs up.
Someone behind him snorts and Dean whirls, sees Sam in an old pair of jeans and a t-shirt with more than a few holes in it. Dean always threatens to throw it away or turn it into rags but Sam won't let it go, says it's old and worn-in and it took work to get it that way. Dean's worried, though, because Sam also says it's his comfort shirt and he only wears it when he's feeling fragile and barely able to hold together.
The last time Sam wore that shirt, half the city was drowning.
He opens his mouth to say something but the doorbell rings, so Dean says, "Sit down," and moves to answer it. Marceline's standing there with a huge picnic basket in her hand, a dishtowel over her shoulder, and a smear of roux the colour of dirt down one cheek.
"Y'all be careful with the beignets," she tells him, handing the basket over. "They're fresh, so they're still hot. And there's some things in the bottom that'll keep 'til you get wherever you're going, but slap them in the fridge soon as you get there, y'hear me?"
"You're a doll," Dean says, bending down and giving Marceline a kiss on the cheek. She flushes, swats at him with her dishtowel, and takes off, probably back to her kitchen.
Dean turns around and Sam's there, leaning against the wall and grinning. "You got 'Celine to leave her kitchen two days before Mardi Gras," Sam says. "I'm impressed."
"Yeah, well," Dean mutters, flushing. "You ready to go? Need to leave any instructions with the badjikan?"
Sam shakes his head, lips pressed together as though vomit might spill out if he opened them. Dean knows that face, recognises it well, so he grabs his keys off of the hook on the wall and yells, "We're leaving! Call me if the world ends!"
He drags Sam out of the house, twines his fingers in with Sam's, and gets to his car faster than he ever has before. They stop for no one, barely even see anyone else, but Ogou's taking note of the people clearing their way -- Petro vodouisantes, every one of them. Dean will thank them later.
--
They get in the car, leave the city as if Damballah's sent a pack of snakes to bite at their heels. Sam has the basket on his lap but he falls asleep before they even hit Slidell, mouth open as he breathes. Dean doesn't have the heart to wake Sam up so he ignores the growling noises his stomach makes and passes the time talking to Ogou.
Dean has to stop for gas on the outskirts of Tallahassee; Sam wakes up in the glare of the station's lighting.
"Sorry," Dean murmurs. "We still have a few hours to get there. Go back to sleep."
"M'fine," Sam says, voice rough and thick with sleep, as he rubs his eyes. "Gotta piss."
Dean snickers, can't help it, as Sam first struggles to get his seat belt undone, then can't figure out what to do with the basket.
"Oh, fuck it," Sam finally mutters, and the electric tang of Karrefour fills the car so fast that Dean sneezes. "So impatient," the loa spits. It's Karrefour who gets Sam out of the car and sends him inside the gas station with strides that cover the distance in seconds.
"That ain't good," Ogou says, concerned now as Dean and his loa watch Sam walk through the convenience store and towards the back of the building.
Dean doesn't think it's a good sign either; Karrefour was able to mount Sam with such force, so quickly, and neither horse nor rider seemed in a particularly good mood. Part of that could have been the abrupt wakening, but the majority of it seemed older, deeper, long-carried.
"We'll work on that," Dean says to Ogou, though he says it loud and the words fill his ears like some kind of promise that someone else is making.
--
Sam's the one coming out of the gas station, Big Gulps and M&Ms in one hand, jerky and coffee in the other.
"I think I love you," Dean says, inhaling the smell of caffeine and chocolate. "But hold that thought; it's my turn."
When Dean comes back out, slides behind the wheel and turns the car on, the drinks are in cupholders, the foods on the bench seat between him and Sam, and Sam? The fucker's already asleep. Again.
Dean stares, then snorts. "You'll make it up me," he says, even as he's relieved that Sam's finally getting some rest. It might help with the circles under his eyes, give him energy and the willpower to go back at the end of the week.
"Put it that way, you should think 'bout waking my trezò up," Ogou mutters.
"Good call," Dean says.
He lets Sam sleep.
--
Dean takes the I-16 termination in Savannah to Gaston Street, then drives up Tattnall to Jones Street, slowing down as he approaches the townhouse to look for a parking place. The streetlights are good but it's ass o'clock in the morning and there's Spanish moss all over the place.
"Windy last night," Ogou tells Dean. "Let me look, I'll get you and m' trezò close."
Ogou's the hunter and Dean's ready for sleep, so Dean lets the loa see through his eyes. Together, they find a spot two car-lengths away from the front door; Ogou crows in delight as they park.
"Yeah, yeah," Dean mutters under his breath as he turns the car off and grabs the basket handle, pulling it off of Sam's lap and over the seat as he gets out of the Impala. "I would've seen it just fine by myself."
"Seen what?" Sam asks, waking up as the basket thumps to the ground and Dean reaches back in for the garbage. "Oh, we're here? Already?"
Dean rolls his eyes. "Just come on," he says. "I'm tired and I bet you could sleep some more." Sam doesn't look like he particularly wants to move, so Dean says, "There's a bed inside. Nice and big, and soft. You could stretch out as much as you want."
"Oh, masisi," Danny croons. "Sure 'nough, you know the way to a woman's heart."
Danny's the one who gets out of the car, but Sam's the one who grabs the duffles from the trunk. Dean's worried about all of the switching; it's not so much the ebb-and-flow of the loa that worries him, more the way they're the ones who get Sam moving, push and prod Sam into action. It's not like Sam to want to sit and do nothing, and the fact that Sam's acting that way makes Dean wonder what's really been happening in Haiti.
He doesn't ask, though. It'll come in time, when Sam's ready and not a second before, so Dean sends Sam upstairs to the bedroom with the duffles while he unpacks Marceline's food into the fridge. There's nothing else in the fridge, no milk, no bread, of course; Dean'll go out later and pick up a few things. Right now, though, after the eleven hour drive and a long day before it, he heads to the stairs, collapses into bed next to Sam and ends up tangling his limbs in with his brother's as he falls asleep.
--
Dean wakes up, cold. He reaches over and Sam's not there; for a brief, flickering moment of panic, he thinks he imagined the whole thing, wonders if he's finally gone crazy. Then, with Ogou snickering at him, Dean smells coffee and food.
He stumbles downstairs, yawning the whole way, hair spiked up and needing a wash, and comes to a halt when he sees the spread Sam's laid out on the table, complete with steaming mugs of café au lait next to glasses of juice and water.
"I was gonna go out," Dean says.
"I did," Sam replies. The toaster dings and Sam picks up two pieces, sets them on top of a pile already buttered and cut diagonally. "You needed sleep; I'm not the one that drove all the way here last night."
Dean shrugs and sits down, picks up a fork and gives the food his single-minded attention for a few minutes. It's good, hot and fresh, and not all of this was in the basket Marceline sent with them. "You taking cooking lessons on the side?" Dean asks, poking at some kind of french toast that tastes vaguely of oranges and is covered in cream.
There's a bowl of something else, something that looks halfway between grits and Cream of Wheat; Dean hasn't tried it yet but Sam's eating spoonful after spoonful of the stuff and ignoring the scrambled eggs entirely.
"Comfort food," Sam says. He fills his spoon yet again but this time he offers it to Dean.
Suspicious, Dean takes a bite and savours the taste as it bursts on his tongue. "S'different," he says. Before Sam's face can fall, Dean says, "Good. Just different. What is it?"
Sam grins, picks up a piece of toast and dips it in his café au lait. Dean grimaces and Sam's grin only grows wider. "Labouyi bannann," Sam replies. "It's made from bananas and plaintains. Comfort food, and," here Sam's smile falters, "it's easy. It's plainer in Port-au-Prince right now." Dean frowns, doesn't understand, so Sam says, "Impossible to find milk and spices. They aren't exactly a necessity when you can't even find clean drinking water."
Dean wouldn't think so, not when the people don't have roofs, not when there are still thousands of people unaccounted for and the outpouring of international aid is starting to slow down. He doesn't know what to say and so he doesn't say anything.
--
Sam cleans up after breakfast, loads the dishwasher and turns it on before he says, "Bed?"
"Bed," Dean echoes, and it's only in the 50s outside so it doesn't feel strange to crawl under a pile of blankets and cuddle tight with the weight of comforters and quilts pressing down.
They don't sleep, not right away, just lie, together, and match the patterns of their breathing while Ogou and Danny revel in the ability to touch one another.
"I don't know how long I'll be gone," Sam finally says. He speaks quietly, a night-time confession made in the height of the afternoon though it's dark with the curtains pulled and the door shut against light from outside. "And I'll have to go back more than just this time."
Dean closes his eyes. "You've talked to the chief houngon, then?" Dean asks. "He wants you to be there?"
Sam nods and Dean can feel the movement even as his chest begins to ache. "He hasn't said for how long but reconstruction will take years. I don't. Maybe a month or two a year for a while. Maybe more. We'll see how it goes." Sam pauses, adds, "And how hurricane season goes this year."
Since Sam brought it up, Dean asks, "What's it like? Is it as bad as they say it is?"
"Worse," Sam says, before rolling closer, pressing himself into Dean as if he can somehow find a way to burrow inside of Dean even more than he already is. "Dean, I've never seen anything like it before. I. I feel so fucking helpless. I'm just one person."
"Sure," Dean says. His heart is sinking. They went through something like this five years ago, after Katrina, when it looked like the people of New Orleans were the only ones putting heart and soul into reconstructing the city. Sam went non-stop for twenty hours a day, worked his hands down to the bone, and saved his tears for the privacy of their bedroom; Dean's sure Sam wasn't the only one. "You're one person. But Sam, one person can go a long way. And when it's you? You have hundreds of people here behind you. You have the loa."
Sam's breath beats out against Dean's skin, warming Dean and giving him goose-bumps with every brush of Sam's lips. "It's different in Haiti," Sam says.
Dean asks how, asks why, and Sam just shakes his head. Strands of his hair glide across Dean's arm. Sam's hair has grown longer but there are strands underneath with ends that have been crudely hacked away, sawed off. Dean wraps his fingers in them, wonders what kind of loa Sam's been calling down with his hair and why, what he's set them to doing.
"I can't explain it," Sam finally says. "It just is."
Haiti has worked its way into Sam's bones. Dean's known that, knew it in his gut the first time he ever met Lissa and knew it for a fact when he found out about Sam's connection to the memeres and Plaquemines. Sam's brand of vodou is old, older than any in the country except for what's lurking down in Buras. That's the vodou that came from Haiti, before it evolved and changed to fit the needs of its people, and that's the vodou that Sam's been knee-deep in since the first time he was ridden.
"They're our cousins, down there," Sam says. "Our brothers and sisters in the faith. And we do nothing for them."
"That's not true," Dean says. "I've seen the emails you send back and forth to that broker of yours. You send a hell of a lot of money down there."
Sam snorts. "Money. Money. I'm just another well-off white guy who throws money at a problem and thinks that's good enough. Like it absolves me of anything."
Dean could almost flinch with how bitter Sam sounds, how resignedly angry his brother is, curled up and frozen with tense hatred.
"Hey," Dean says, as soft as he can. "It's not perfect. But you have responsibilities here, ones that will keep you here. You're our poto mitan, not theirs. Sure, maybe we can do better but, Sam, you can't change the entire world. That's not up to you."
Sam shakes. At first, Dean thinks that his brother is getting ready to argue, then he feels the dampness against his skin. Dean holds Sam tight, lets him cry, and wishes there was something, anything, more he could do.
"Responsibilities," Sam finally says. "I'm responsible to be human. There are people there, Dean, people, like you and me, who have just lost everything and are sleeping on the ground while their mothers and fathers and children are still buried under piles of rubble. How can we, how are we supposed to, what's the point."
Dean thinks Sam's going to keep talking, exorcise everything he's been thinking and feeling, but Sam's stopped, has gone limp as if he's been bottling this up for weeks and now that it's out, that he's shared it, he's not capable of moving. Dean has no earthly idea how to handle this. What can he say?
"You doing what you can, trezò," Ogou says, tone gruff as he speaks through Dean, for Dean. "Ain't no one asking you t'do anything else."
"It's not enough," Sam says. "It will never be enough."
Dean doesn't know what to say to that. Neither does Ogou.
--
The next couple days aren't comfortable, exactly, but Sam's here and that's all that matters. They eat and sleep and have sex, and at one point they go out for dinner. Sam stares at the menu and murmurs something too quietly for Dean to catch. He doesn't eat, just drinks cup after cup of coffee and stares off into the distance. Dean takes the majority of his food home and watches in silence as Sam makes a cup of akasan and heats up the leftover griot complete from lunch.
It's as if Sam's not even here. Oh, his body is, but his mind is stuck in Haiti and the black magic loa are as well, carrying Sam across land and sea, cracking the edges of Sam's vévés even when Sam's doing nothing more than sleeping.
Dean doesn't know what to do. Ogou doesn't have any suggestions. They both think, in retrospect, it was a mistake to come here, away from everyone that cares and worries and might be able to snap Sam out of this.
It's too late, though; they drove back to New Orleans last night and Sam's flight leaves in three hours. Dean wishes he was a child so he could kick and scream and throw a tantrum at the idea of Sam being gone, again. Ogou's not pleased, either, Dean and the loa watching through the kitchen window as Sam kneels at the foot of Lakwa's courtyard statue and whispers a prayer.
"He been there before," Ogou says, strangely still and watchful. "What he seein' now, it ain't nothing the same, pro'ly."
"Been there before?" Dean asks. "To wherever in Haiti he's been at the last few weeks?"
The loa nods in the back of Dean's skull. "His maman took 'im, back when he was staying with her."
He went to Haiti with Lissa, and he stayed with her when he first got involved in the religion, before he became poto mitan. "With Marinette," Dean says. "Things were different then, all right." Ogou makes a noise of agreement and Dean watches as his brother moves from Lakwa's statue to Karrefour's, pausing as he bypasses both Erzulie's and Marinette's.
Dean gets goosebumps. Sam usually makes obeisance to Erzulie, even if it's short. Going from Baren Samedi straight to the loa of the night crossroads, from death to malevolence, it can't be a good sign.
"He's been visiting a hounfor down there?" Dean asks, something about the way Sam's acting striking him as odd. He's not sure why or what, exactly, it's probably something that Mathieu's konesan would pick out in an instant but Dean doesn't know where to start looking.
"Naw," Ogou replies. "It's too crazy down there to start calling down loa. Only ones he got down there are."
Dean cuts his loa off, wide-eyed as Sam presses a kiss to Karrefour's statue and then moves to kneel before Simbe. "Are the ones with their vévés tattooed on him. And I bet he spends all his energy keeping them in line, doesn't he, and that's before everything he's trying to do to help."
Ogou doesn't respond, which is an answer in and of itself. Dean's heart sinks; he knows Sam has to go back but he doesn't want Sam to go. He almost thinks it would have been better if Sam hadn't come back; Dean's more worried now than he was before.
He watches as Sam makes a complete round of the courtyard, even bending over to kiss the top of Marinette's statue, before he settles in front of Erzulie's figurine and curls in tight on himself. This looks personal, between Sam and his loa, so Dean leaves the kitchen and goes through the messages that the badjikan took for him while he was in Savannah. Rita's taken care of most of the problems that came up, kept an eye on the city during Mardi Gras, which means there aren't many things that Dean will have to deal with.
He's getting the beginnings of an idea, though, so he calls Rita, waits for her to answer and then says, point-blank, "Sam's leaving for Haiti in three hours. I want to call a gathering for this afternoon and I want every Petro in the city there, full-on vodouisantes and initiates, everyone."
Rita doesn't sound surprised. "Where we meeting at, papalwa?"
Dean worries at his lower lip for a couple seconds, then says, "Call the monseigneur."
There's a long pause from Rita's side, then she says, steadily, "This is serious, then."
"Let me know what time you settle on," Dean says, and hangs up.
--
Sam leaves with little fanfare, getting on to the airplane with a handful of other aid workers and all the supplies that will fit after a clinging hug that almost melts Dean's resolve to be strong for his brother. Sam doesn't look back when they separate and Dean watches only as long as it takes for the airplane to start taxiing out to the runway. Then he turns, checks his text messages, and drives back to the Quarter.
Mardi Gras is over. Dean has a meeting to prepare for and a city to mobilise.