Knowledge of Dead Secrets (2 of 10)
Dean’s been sitting on the living room couch for longer than he should’ve when he finally shakes himself out of his stupor. Théo’s next to him, leaning forward, legs spread and leaning on them, looking at the floor. He stirs slightly when Dean does, turns his head and looks at Dean with mournful eyes.
“Didn’t hear you sit down,” Dean mutters, rubbing one hand over his eyes, his forehead. It’s too much to take in, even if the clock on the wall’s right and he’s been trying for the past three hours.
“Didn’t think you’d mind if I did,” Théo says back, same volume, same sort of tone. “Lakwa sent me to stay with you, said he needed to talk to Sophie now that,” and he stops.
Dean moves slightly, puts down an empty cup he doesn’t remember picking up, doesn’t remember drinking down the contents of. “Now that, what?” he asks, pushing.
Théo’s eyes spark, some hidden depth of anger swimming under the surface of his sadness. “Now that asogwe Stefanie’s dead. Sophie’s rider is Erzulie Freda, same loa, and with Stefanie gone, she’ll be the horse everyone’s watching. Erzulie likes her, almost as much as she liked Stefanie.”
At Dean’s look of surprise, Théo gives him a slow, melancholic smile, and asks, “You didn’t think we were our own island out here, did you? Naw, we keep in touch with our roots, with the vodouisantes down in the parishes. Sometimes we go back and visit; more often than not, they’ve been coming out here, ever since your brother showed up.”
“Sam,” Dean murmurs, and Théo looks back down at the floor, at his hands, clasped together, elbows resting on his knees.
“I know that you, you kill people like us,” Théo says, haltingly. “And if it wasn’t your brother wearing the bridle, you’d probably go after all of us, too. But now, you have to realise, Dean, you’re one of us, too.”
Dean shakes his head before he starts saying, “No, no, I’m not. I’m not one of you at all. I’m nothing like you people.”
Théo’s smile comes like a smack in the face. “One of the Petro’s got her claws in you, Dean. They wouldn’t be keeping you around for tonight otherwise.”
When Dean asks what that’s supposed to mean, Théo just shakes his head and gets up, going into the kitchen.
--
People start trickling in through the door at the top of the stairs an hour later. The smells coming from the kitchen are getting to Dean, just like the looks when people see him, the way they stop and stare, movements stuttering, before they move in and claim what seem like regular places on the furniture pressed against the walls. A few, that walk in together, come inside and don’t even look at Dean, just make their way down the hallway, disappearing through a door, judging by the sound of one opening and closing again and again.
Dean can’t take it, the way people are studying him, the way they’re whispering around him, Creole and Haitian French floating across to him. He stands, goes in to the kitchen, where it’s just Théo, laying out plates and bowls, someone he knows and has come to some unspoken truce with.
“What’s for dinner?” Dean asks, looking over Théo’s shoulder, into the large, simmering pot. The smell of andouille and chicken and crawfish, mixed with green pepper, onion, garlic, floods Dean’s nose, and he reaches in to scoop up a bite.
Théo smacks his hand with a wooden spoon, one that has something white stuck to it, little granule of flour or some kind of powder, and Dean frowns, takes his hand back and rubs his knuckles. He sees Théo stifle a smile, though, and Dean thinks that maybe, just maybe, Théo really does think Dean’s a part of the family.
What that says about Dean, well. He’d rather not think about that.
“Jambalaya,” Théo finally says. “Big pot for the gathering. Grits, some baguette, and pie for dessert. Enough for everyone and seconds besides.” Théo pauses, then asks, “You came up here straight from New Orleans?”
Théo’s voice has no inflection, but the hand holding the spoon, dipping into the jambalaya, is tight, skin white, spoon shaking.
Dean steps back, across the kitchen, and grabs a beer from the fridge, waiting for comment. When none comes, he says, “Yeah. Plaquemines Parish. Swamp country.”
“There’s good shrimp down there,” Théo says. Dean nods, and Théo adds, as if making a confession, “Pierre and I were born in Belle Chasse, in the north end of the parish,” and Dean blinks, because he’d almost forgotten about the waiter downstairs. “Our father was part of the Reserves group there, met maman and we were born ten months later. She died when we were young’uns, and we moved out here, into our auntie’s house, right before Hurricane Andrew.”
“What happened to your father?” Dean asks, voice soft, because he understands the pain of losing a parent, but he still had John, might’ve lived a cracked-out mockery of a childhood, but at least he had his father.
Théo’s face tightens, and he drops the lid on the pot of jambalaya, turns fast, checks another pot, the grits, Dean thinks, before he takes a few baguettes out of the small oven. “He didn’t want us,” Théo says. “We were too black for his taste.”
There’s not much Dean can say to that, so he keeps his mouth shut, pops the top off of his beer and starts swallowing.
“Sam told us about the way you two grew up,” Théo says, once it looks like he’s gained some semblance of calm. “I thought it was only fair you should know. He’s like a brother to us, brother, teacher, and lover all in one.”
“You mean the loa are,” Dean says, tasting bitterness on his tongue again, lurking and lingering under the beer. “They’re the ones controlling his body.”
Théo smiles, and looks at Dean. Dean’s taken off-guard, the raw sensuality in Théo’s smile, the way he’s looking at Dean, head down-tilted, shadows highlighting the high arch of Théo’s cheekbones.
“Sam’s in there, Dean,” Théo says, and the words, half-whispered, half-crooned, echo in Dean’s ears. “He’s in there. There ain’t nothing they do with his body that he ain’t agreed to.” Théo steps closer to Dean, the edges of his lips curving up a little more, and he adds, “And damn, Dean. You should listen to him when he’s agreeing.”
Dean swallows, doesn’t want to think about what that means, and he’s saved when Sophie comes into the kitchen, gives them both a curious look, and starts signing at Théo, hands moving too fast for Dean to keep track of.
Théo sighs, gives Dean a look that promises more of the same discussion later, and leans his head out into living room. “Food’s on, y’all,” he says, and moves out of the way as people start coming into the kitchen in the same twos and threes they entered the little apartment in, serving themselves, dropping jambalaya into bowls, grits into smaller bowls, tearing off chunks of bread, grabbing a glass of wine or a bottle of beer, ooh-ing and ah-ing over the pies cooling on the counter near the sink.
Dean watches, and when they’re all eating, spread out moreso now than before, all over the living room and the kitchen, he sits down, takes a bowl filled to the brim from Théo.
“You’ll be needing your strength, Dean,” he says gently. “I know you pro’ly ain’t hungry, but you need to eat. For Sam,” he adds, and Dean wants to growl, wants to snarl back, but Théo’s picked out Dean’s one weakness, one older brother to another, and Dean takes the spoon and fork that Théo offers.
--
The food’s as good as the gumbo they had a few hours ago, but Dean can’t make his throat work, can’t swallow. He slurps some grits down, thick and heavy with butter, washes the smell of bread out of the back of his mouth with another beer, until the nervous buzzing in his veins has evened out some, taken down into his stomach with hot food and eased off the edge with cold alcohol.
He’s sitting there, silent and tense, watching the others move in and out, and things start to turn a little hazy. Dean blinks, opens his mouth and tries to speak, but nothing comes out, just a croaking hiss, and the noise gets Théo’s attention, who looks at him, then nods and whispers something to Sophie.
“What?” Dean asks, the word feeling unfamiliar on his tongue, the way his mouth shapes the foreign sound, clacking against his teeth.
Théo crouches next to Dean, places a hand on his forehead, and says, “Hush now, Dean. It’s all right.”
Dean blinks, can’t do much more, his entire body slipping out from under his mind, and even his mind seems to be caught, trapped, on its way to sleep.
His vision’s starting to blur, and then he sees Sam crouch down next to Théo, reaching out to touch Dean’s cheek.
“Sam,” he murmurs, the hiss of the ‘s’ drawn out, long and serpentine.
Sam smiles, and Dean remembers that he shouldn’t trust that, that it’s not Sam, but it looks like him, eyes shining with tears, and when Sam says, “I’m sorry, Dean,” it sounds like him, too.
Sam turns to Théo, says, “Get everyone ready, Théo. We’ll need Erzulie Freda to hold the Petro, and Baron Cimetière’ll be there to help guide her through the guédé. Are you ready to start the aksyon degras?”
Théo inclines his head, stands up and places a hand on Sam’s shoulder, squeezes. Dean tries to say something, seeing it, but he can’t, can only listen, vision blurring and then fading completely, as he hears Théo say, “Ogou’ll come. He’s ready and aching for a ride. Thirsty,” and Dean falls unconscious to the sound of Sam’s laughter.
--
It’s not a slow slide into consciousness when Dean wakes up. One minute he’s not awake, the next he is, quick as that, awake and reaching for a knife, reaching under the pillow, before it sinks in that he’s not in a motel room and there’s no knife within reaching distance. He opens his eyes and hisses at the light, blinks and lets his pupils adjust before he moves his hands to rub them. He stops, though, smelling ash and rum on his hands, and he studies his hands, coated in a veil of thin, white powder.
“Huh.” Dean sits up, looks around, and sees that he’s in a room, stretched out on a bed low and close to the ground, black comforter under him, edged in red. The entire room’s done in white and black, much like the living room-and he swings his feet off the edge, tries to stand up, because he realises he must be in one of the rooms off of the hallway, in the apartment above the café. He tries to remember how he got here, what happened, and the closest he can get is eating in the kitchen, throwing back beer and a bowl of grits.
His head aches, and he falls back to the bed when he tries to stand, wavering on his feet, dizzy, mouth dry. There’s a glass of water on a table next to the bed, and he picks it up, has it halfway to his mouth when he stops, sees his hand shaking, sees that fine powder falling off and onto the floor.
“Son of a bitch,” he mutters, and throws the glass, sees it shatter into pieces against the far wall, water tracking a line from him to the wall and then exploding outwards. “Son of a bitch,” he says again, louder this time, and then yells out, “Someone get in here!”
Théo opens the door, says, “Someone’ll be in here soon,” and starts to close the door.
“Now you listen, Théo, you little punk,” Dean says, but he’s cut off by the sight of a tight smile on Théo’s face.
“I’m Pierre. Théo’s busy. Stay here, someone’ll be in soon,” and he shuts the door, locks it from the outside.
It takes Dean a minute, but he cusses internally, the twin, the waiter, not Théo, and he should’ve known that. He stands up, holding on to the table for support, and breathes through the dizziness, the pain in his legs and arms, the way his left hand doesn’t seem to want to work, wants to stay clawed up.
Once he can move, he goes to the door, tries the handle, but it’s locked, something he can’t overpower. He blinks, tries to focus on his side of the lock, but his vision swims. “Come on,” he mutters to himself, and reaches in the back pocket of his jeans, pulls out a paperclip. He jams it in the lock, pushes and prods, and somehow jimmies it open minutes later.
He opens the door, walks through it, right hand on the wall, because the hallway’s moving, fading in and out, changing colours like he’s looking at it through a prism, but when he gets to the living room, he stops, and his eyes focus on Sam, lying on the floor, naked from the waist up, covered in tattoos that twine up his chest, around his sides onto his back, up and down his arms to the elbow, bones and arrows and snakes, curling lines in black and white between them, connecting them all.
“Sam,” he breathes, and propels himself forward with enough force so that he lands on his knees near Sam’s head. He reaches out, checks his brother’s pulse, pushing Sophie out of the way. “Sam, come on,” he says, then looks up, pins a glare on everyone. “What the fuck happened?”
Théo comes out of the kitchen carrying two of the glass jars from the windowsill, it has to be Théo, because Pierre’s sitting on the other side of Sam, chanting something. Théo lays out red dust around Sam’s body, murmuring something in French while he does, then opens the bottle of red-tinted oil and starts drawing symbols on Sam’s forehead, under Sam’s heart, on Sam’s palms.
Sophie reaches for Dean, tries to pull him away, but he throws her off, pushes her away, and asks again, “What. Happened.”
“In a minute,” Théo says, and then dips his fingers in the oil, swipes them across Sam’s lips.
Just like that, Sam’s coughing, eyes open, like he’s eaten something a little too spicy, not as if he hasn’t been breathing.
“Ro, come on, the ro, gimme the ro,” Sam gasps, one hand pressed to his throat as the tattoos on his body seem to move. Dean blinks, chalks it up to dizziness, the way his head’s pounding, and before he can do anything, Pierre’s slipping something white between Sam’s lips, is stroking Sam’s throat to get him to swallow.
Sam does, and he’s shaking, muscles seizing, one after another after another, and Dean doesn’t know how long he just sits there for, his sight fading in and out, his head pounding. Sam eventually calms, until he’s just barely twitching, and then he’s still for all of a handful of seconds, Dean thinks, until his spine bends, back arching off of the ground, hands clawing at the carpet.
Dean leans forward, but then Sam collapses, panting, and says, “It’s done. She’s gone,” and the tension in the room disappears completely. Sophie, already kneeling, sinks to her hands, as if the bones in her body have given out, cracked under some enormous pressure, and Dean looks up to see Pierre sag against one of the chairs, sees Théo come over and drop to his knees next to Sam, lean down and take Sam’s cheeks in his hands, press his forehead against Sam’s, getting that red oil all over his face and palms.
“Don’t scare me like that again, please,” Théo whispers, and Sophie crawls forward enough to lay her head on Sam’s stomach. Dean can only watch as Sam lifts his hands, one tangling in Sophie’s hair, the other reaching up, covering one of Théo’s hands. “Don’t scare us like that, you crazy man.”
“It had to be done,” Sam murmurs, before he tilts his chin up and kisses Théo. “You know it had to be done,” and then Théo’s sobbing into Sam’s mouth, kissing Sam like if he doesn’t, if he stops, Sam might disappear and never come back.
A moment later, Sophie crawls up Sam’s body and butts Théo’s head aside, kisses Sam herself, while Théo starts sucking on Sam’s jaw, biting the bone, the skin, the curve. Sam’s lying on the ground, on his back, with one on each side, and it’s like the three of them have fallen into their own universe, completely ignorant of everything and everyone else as they kiss, as Théo’s hands start fumbling with Sam’s jeans, as one of Sam’s hands cups one of Sophie’s breasts, thumb rubbing back and forth across her nipple.
Dean can’t help but watch, can’t help but feel the level of desperate sexuality rise in the air, hot and clinging. He can’t move, but Pierre gets to his feet, steps around the three on the floor and takes Dean by the shoulder, hauls him up and into the kitchen, and Dean’s filled with a certain measure of relief.
Pierre pushes him into a chair, the same one he was in before, and then hands Dean a glass of water and two white pills.
Dean looks at them suspiciously, says, “You people fucking drugged me. You think I’m gonna be stupid enough to let you do it again?”
“Aspirin, idiote,” Pierre says, scoffing. “You wouldn’t have helped us any other way, and we needed you.”
“To do what?” Dean asks, incredulous, voice rising as he slams the glass of water on the table. “Just what the fuck was that all about?”
Pierre leans against the counter, folds his arms across his chest, and speaks in a very precise rhythm, none of the words accented, and that almost makes it worse to listen to.
“Most of the time, the loa get along. Not all of them like each other, but they’ve come to a few agreements about certain things, about territory and horses, truces to stay out of one another’s way. Your brother, he’s special.” Dean snorts, but Pierre continues as if he hadn’t heard anything.
“He has vévés drawn inside of his head, somehow, because he doesn’t need anything to call the loa, they’re just there, in him, riding him. It’s smooth, like a demonic possession without any outward sign, without needing a ceremony or Ati to open the doors. Sam was drawn to us when he saw our dishes, the vévé painted on them. He said they looked familiar, like something he’d been dreaming about. We included him in a ritual, and he was ridden by nine separate loa that night.”
Dean blinks, feels like the breath’s been knocked out of him. Nine loa, and Sam survived. Nine loa, and Sam didn’t even have the benefit of a drawn vévé, nothing to help him.
“They never really left, after that, and when they did, Sam wasn’t well. Without the loa, at least one of them, he’s not complete, can’t cope, needs things to calm him down.”
Dean sees red. “Needs things,” he says, then asks, “Needs things? Drugs, you mean. Those pills you were giving him, what were they?”
“We don’t like it any more than you do,” Pierre says, still calm. “What Sam is, what he means to us, we’d do anything to protect him. We have done whatever it takes, broken many laws, many times. If there was a way around it.”
Dean cuts him off, says, “What was it?”
Pierre pauses, finally answers, “Rohypnol. Very small amounts, just enough to calm him.”
“That what you gave me?” Dean spits out. “That why I can’t remember anything that happened? My brother was dead, he wasn’t breathing, and I was sleeping off a roofie in the back room?”
“In Sam’s room,” Pierre says, voice soft even as it corrects Dean, doesn’t argue with the rest of his summation, merely says, “He said it was needed. We’ll do whatever it takes to keep him happy, to help his work.”
Dean stands up, looks into the living room, and stops, brain still shaking off the effects of the Rohypnol, now trying to parse the tangle of limbs and oil-slick skin in front of him, the way clothes are thrown all over the place and Sam’s arching over Sophie, fucking her slow and sweet, giant hands holding hers out to the side, pinned on the floor, his spine curved as Théo kneels behind Sam and thrusts, head thrown back and eyes closed.
“Dean,” Pierre says, and Dean skitters out of the way when he feels a hand on his shoulder. He turns and glares at Pierre, who steps back, hands up, and says, “Why don’t you go get yourself a shower, some clean clothes? They’ll be a while, I’ve no doubt o’ that.”
Dean doesn’t say no, turns back and can’t help the way his eyes slide to Sam, whose eyes are closed, who’s breathing out something in Creole, something that sounds low and dirty and begging, hair sticking to his skin.
“Where’s the bathroom?” he asks, voice rasping in his throat, and after Pierre tells him, points down the hallway, Dean moves mechanically, eyes focused straight ahead, hearing the sounds of three people coming apart, coming together, behind him.
--
The bathroom’s done up just like the rest of the house, white and black, but in here it’s in a checkerboard pattern, with red thrown in every so often. Now that he’s looking for it, Dean sees hints of the loa all around, the small embroidered hearts on the towels, the miniature bottles of rum and whisky on the counter next to the toothbrush holder. There are three brushes in the holder, three different colours, and Dean thinks back, remembers how soft the bed was, how big, it was unreal, and this little slice of domesticity, it almost sinks in faster and deeper than actually seeing Sam in the middle of a ménage-a-trois. The three of them, or more, if he counts the loa, and that has Dean angry, turning on the shower with a little more force than necessary.
The water’s hot when he finally gets in, and there are salts and soaps and oils to choose from, a row of shampoos and conditioners, and he picks one at random, something that curls liquid green on his palm and smells of limes.
Dean stays in for half an hour, maybe longer, and when he pulls back the shower curtain, there are clothes piled on top of the toilet lid, set of pyjamas and outdoor clothes both, giving him the choice. Dean’s not sure who brought them in, brings the t-shirt up to his face and inhales. At first it’s just oranges, that and something else, something that smells vaguely like cinnamon, only nuttier, but the longer he inhales, the deeper his breaths get, the more he can smell Sam, spicy and rich, like coffee and chocolate mixed together with a hint of pepper, liquid and tangy.
He ignores the way his cock’s twitching, pulls on boxer-briefs and then cotton pants, ties the drawstring around his waist and puts on the t-shirt, losing the last of his frown when it practically swims around him. One of Sam’s shirts, and it’s soft, worn, smells like Sam and whisky.
Dean breathes deep, steels himself, and steps out into the hallway, only to be greeted by Pierre, lounging against the wall opposite, waiting. Dean raises an eyebrow, and in the silence, he hears them still going at it in the living room.
“Again,” Pierre says, indulgent smile on his face, like he heard what Dean was thinking. “Slower this time. As I said, they’ll be a while.”
“And you don’t care?” Dean asks, has to, because the noises they’re making, the sounds and smells wafting through the air, they’re enough to drive him crazy and he doesn’t live here, has no idea what’s going on.
Pierre shrugs, pushes off the wall, feline grace, possessing the same danger as Théo but more aware of it, and says, “The three of them, they are a unit of their own. Sam loves them both equally, though in different ways, for what they mean to him, what they represent. When Sam is in his own mind, I stay out of the way.”
He smiles, and Dean thinks it looks more like a cat about to pounce, rippling muscles and pointed canines, than a person’s expression. “But when certain of the loa bring him to bridle, then I have my turn,” Pierre says, stepping close to Dean as he adds, “Those times? They are like slices of heaven on earth, Dean. Have you never thought what it would be like to sink into him? Perhaps you should,” and he hums before he smiles, bares his teeth, and says, “The guest bedroom’s at the end of the hall.”
“He’s my brother,” Dean says, though it takes time, voice shocked, disgusted, turned on, echoing down the hallway to where Pierre’s standing, framed by the light of the living room, whites of his eyes brilliantly vibrant.
“Maybe when the loa are on him, then,” Pierre replies, dismissive.
Dean stands there, frozen, as Pierre leaves, goes into the kitchen, the sounds of Sam and Théo and Sophie bouncing off the walls, pushing Dean toward the end of the hallway.
He moves, slips under thick quilts, patterned with vévés, and falls into a hazed sleep, his dreams shaded over with red, painted under with curlicues and ribbons, laughter wrapped around everything.
--
Dean wakes up to the smell of something frying, and when he looks at the clock on the wall, he sees that it’s nearly noon. He’d be surprised he slept so long if it hadn’t said four when he got into bed, and despite everything that happened last night, he feels refreshed, like he’s ready to face the day and everything it holds in store. He’s half-hard, thinks about ignoring it but doesn’t, reaching down under the covers and into his pants, underwear, and when he comes a few minutes later, it’s with the image of Sam, between Sophie and Théo, branded on the inside of his eyelids.
It’s a little startling, but Dean wipes his hand off, gets up and pisses, washes his hands, then makes his way into the kitchen, pushing it all firmly in the back of his mind, determined not to think about it. Sam’s by the stove, has something cooking in a skillet, something else bubbling in a small saucepan, and there’s a cup of coffee sitting on the table.
“Morning,” Sam says, looking over his shoulder at Dean for a moment before turning his attention back to the stove, flipping something that looks like ham. “Coffee’s yours. Should still be warm.”
Dean picks up the mug, looks at it, thinks about asking if it’s spiked but doesn’t, just sits down, watches his brother move around the kitchen, start putting things on plates, in bowls.
“The others are all downstairs,” Sam goes on, “so it’ll just be me and you for lunch. I thought you might appreciate that. We can talk.”
“You and how many loa?” Dean snaps back, and he’s gratified to see Sam pause at that, pause and stand where he’s at, still, tense.
Sam seems to shake himself out of it, though, slaps eggs, over-easy, home fries, and fried ham and tomatoes onto two plates, spoon up grits into a couple bowls, starts setting food on the table. A basket of toast and a carafe of orange juice get smushed in, along with extra glasses, silverware, and a cup of coffee for Sam, and then Sam sits down across from Dean.
“Just two this morning,” he says, cutting in his eggs, letting the yolk ooze out over the potatoes. “Legba and the baron. Most of the others are taking it easy after last night, but those two usually always stick around.”
Dean drops his fork on the edge of his plate, waits for Sam to look up at him before he says, “Sam. We do not talk about the loa like we’re discussing the weather. Especially,” he adds, harsh and biting, “after your little cult drugged me last night. Dude! Not cool. When am I gonna get some answers about that, huh?”
“I thought we’d eat first,” Sam says, but he puts down his fork as well, slowly, and says, “Guess not. Fine. When you woke up this morning, how’d you feel?”
“Felt fine,” Dean retorts, immediately.
Sam rolls his eyes, asks, “Did you feel better than you have been? Better than the past few weeks?”
Eyes narrowed, Dean thinks back. “Yeah, a little,” he finally says, cautiously. “Why? What difference does that,” and he stops, Lakwa’s words coming back to haunt him. “You think the damned loa had her hooks in me this whole time? Marinette, is that the one?”
“She doesn’t let go once she finds a suitable vehicle,” Sam says, and tears off a chunk of toast, scoops up some of the egg yolk. “Erzulie Freda knew what happened when you went to Stefanie’s, she got word to us so we’d know. Once you showed up downstairs, we knew a Petro was still hanging on to you, guessed it was Marinette. Erzulie’s a Rada, Marinette’s a Petro, so Erzulie had the right to hold Marinette responsible for Stefanie’s death; it was just a matter of getting Marinette somewhere where they could deal with her.”
Dean licks his lips, says, “So you had them drug me, called out Marinette, and had some kind of trial? Look, Sam, I appreciate you getting her out of me, really, but was this all necessary? Couldn’t you have just exorcised me or something? Couldn’t you have warned me?”
The eyes that look back at Dean, Sam’s eyes, are just as dark as Ati’s, just as deep as Lakwa’s, but they’re entirely Sam, full of regret and sorrow, with the same steely necessity that Dean’s used to seeing in his father’s eyes.
“It was necessary,” Sam says. “Wish to Ayizan it wasn’t, but it was. It had to be done.”
“You were dead,” Dean says, leaning towards his brother.
Sam smiles, replies, “I’m ridden by Baron Samedi,” like it’s a valid argument.
Dean mutters under his breath, but the thing is, Sam’s right. Being used as a horse for the loa of the dead has always given that person a sense of life and death not many others have; Dean remembers hearing horror stories about hunters going and killing the baron’s horse and then having to go back and do it again months later. Sam’s always had a more fluid idea of death, though, ever since he was a child, and now Dean’s wondering if his little brother has had the vévés in his head since then, heard the baron since infancy, or if this is something new.
“So how do we get them out of you?” Dean asks, after a sip of chicory coffee, slightly sour, slightly bitter.
“You don’t,” Sam says, picking up his fork and knife again, cutting into his ham. He chews, swallows, and looks back at Dean, who’s holding his mug, not drinking. Sam sighs, says, “Dean.”
Dean shakes his head, thumps his mug down. “No, Sam. No. This is not acceptable.”
Sam meets Dean’s eyes and says, “This is not up to you.”
--
They eat in silence, and after Sam’s cleared the table, left the dishes to soak in the sink, Sam says, “Other than the loa, is there anything else you’d like to yell about?”
Dean looks up, eyes narrowed, but there’s a grin playing at Sam’s lips, some semblance of humour in his words.
“Sam,” Dean growls, and Sam grins full-out, runs hands through his hair, stretches expansively.
“Oh, come on,” Sam says, teasing. “This life, Dean? It’s not bad. Sure, it’s complicated, but not any more than how we lived.”
Dean’s jaw drops, and he says, “Not bad? Sam, you stopped breathing last night. You’re possessed by loa, you’re some kind of, what, some kind of houngon, and you’re addicted to Rohypnol when the loa aren’t in you. How is any of this good?”
Sam laughs, says, “I have an apartment, friends, lovers. How is any of this bad?”
The mention of lovers makes Dean’s mind flash back, stuck on the image of Sam, lying on his back as Théo and Sophie draped themselves over him, the slow slip-slide of Creole dripping from his lips, and he swallows hard, turns away.
“Look, Dean,” Sam says, serious now, “we’ll just have to agree to disagree for now, okay? The loa, the vodou and hoodoo, it’s not gonna change any time soon, so if that’s all you’re gonna think about, then you should just leave and not come back when you’re done. I’m not going with you, and I don’t want you to waste your time arguing with me when you could be heading toward Missouri.”
Dean turns back around, slowly, eyes wide as he stares at his brother.
Sam shrugs, awkwardly scratches the back of his head, and says, “What?”
“Heading where?” Dean asks, voice cracking in the middle of the first word.
“Mi-Dad didn’t tell you yet?” Sam asks, eyes narrowed in resigned disbelief. “What did he tell you?”
Dean sits back down, heavy, like the weight of his shock has settled in his bones. “He’s got a lead on the demon. Told me to come and get you, give him a call on the way out of Palo Alto, he’d tell us where to go.”
Sam kneels down at Dean’s side, sinking to his knees in a slow movement that makes Dean shake his head. Sam must think it’s related to John’s instructions, because he doesn’t ask about it, just puts one hand on Dean’s knee and says, “It’s going to try and take another mother just south of a place called Eldon,” and Dean’s fighting to focus on what Sam’s saying, not the heat of his brother’s hand, so close to his dick.
“There’s a gun, it’ll kill demons, but there needs to be three of you there for this to work,” Sam adds, and squeezes Dean’s knee before standing up, taking something out of his back pocket.
He takes Dean’s hand, drops some sort of charm in Dean’s palm, and then bends down, kisses Dean’s temple.
“Protection,” Sam murmurs. “It works better drawn on the skin, but I didn’t think you’d appreciate getting attacked by Sharpies. Loa protect you and Ayizan watch over you.” Sam kisses the centre of Dean’s forehead, and adds, softer, barely above a murmur, “Bondye bring you back to me.”
Dean closes his eyes, curls his hand tight around the charm, and sits there, listening, as Sam leaves, goes downstairs.
The apartment’s silent, noises from the café underneath coming through as a restrained hum, traffic from outside filtering in through open windows. Dean opens his hand after a few minutes, ignores the white lines where the edges of the charm have pressed into his skin, and studies the piece of metal he’s holding. The edges have been dulled so they won’t cut, and there’s a hole in the middle of the vaguely circular charm, the rest of the small piece covered in tendrils of etched lines, tangled up and curled together, on both sides.
Dean gets chills looking at it, but he doesn’t hesitate to take off the necklace holding his amulet and slide the charm on as well. When he clasps it back around his neck, the amulet and the charm bounce off one another, the sound normal, average, but something about the noise, under it, maybe, makes Dean swallow hard, conjures up images of motel room, the inside of the Impala, Sam with his eyes closed, the feeling of lips pressed against Dean’s temple.
He shakes it off, gets dressed, and leaves the apartment without looking back. As he’s walking through the café, Pierre presses a large brown paper bag with the top rolled down and over, into Dean’s hands.
“Ogou strike your enemies,” he says, eyes gleaming, like he’d go with Dean given half the chance. “And don’t forget to eat.”
Dean nods once, says, “Thanks,” slowly, cautiously, but Pierre just smiles and goes off to talk to one of the customers sitting near the back.
Part Three