Fic: Strange Tilts of Fate [1/5]
Part One
The spray of fallen leaves around the backyard water pump crunches underfoot and Dean knows that they’ve reached the point where the changing weather can’t be pushed off to the back of his head any longer. That’s truly it for the summer and it’s autumn now; autumn with its own list of chores to be done before the temperatures drop and the snow piles itself too high against the kitchen door to be easily brushed aside.
Giving the pump one last heave, he ticks through his mental list of what should have been done by now and heads off towards the house, bucket of water hanging heavily on his arm. There’s some things that can be put off until next summer, sure, some things there’s still enough time for. Maybe if he can get a couple extra hours in at the Road House and persuade one of the local farmers to let him lend a hand with the apple-picking, he’ll be able to afford a new coat before he really needs one.
His gaze drifts over to the lopsided scarecrow stuck haphazardly in the middle of the pumpkin patch and lingers on the faded red wool covering its straw body. Sam’s from last year. Too small for his behemoth younger brother, but probably just Dean’s size once it’s had a good wash and been patched up in a couple more places.
Well, worse comes to worst.
“Aren’t you done yet?” he asks, firing one of the stones lining the garden path off in his brother’s direction with his foot. The action sets him off balance and the bucket he’s still holding sloshes its contents wildly in protest. But the stone bouncing off a pumpkin to ricochet into Sam’s knee is worth what might result in another trip to the pump.
His brother snorts, hurling a - somewhat pitiful as far as Dean’s concerned - handful of weeds back at him as he rises, wiping dirt-encrusted hands on the knees of his trousers. The pumpkins he’s been tending are quickly starting to grow round and the ripening hulls have lost almost all of their green. “Like you haven’t - ” He’s cut off by a distant shout from the village, out of sight just down the forested path leading away from the homestead.
The sudden, accompanying thunder of hoof beats is loud enough that it carries clearly up the trail, but by Dean’s quick estimation, the animal’s not quite so close to home as Sam seems to think. His brother’s shoulders are squared to the opening of the path, eyes scanning the line of forest around them with rapt attention.
Dean gives it a minute, letting the wooden grip of the bucket he’s still holding dig painfully into his palms, masking his own anticipation in favor of not looking the fool. His efforts pay off when the sound stops long before any horse appears. He twists back to Sam in the pumpkin patch and shoots him an amused look that does a pretty good job of covering up his own disappointment. “Thought it might be dad, didn’t you?”
He can see his brother’s jaw set from across the garden and Sam waits a moment more, eyes still on the path, before dropping his head and bending to untangle the mass of green vines before him, brushing his fingers through the loose dirt. “It’s been a while.”
Dean doesn’t answer, but gives his brother a last, sidelong look before hefting the kitchen door open with his shoulder. Inside, the farmhouse smells like it could use a good airing out - their dirty laundry hanging off the pegged ladder to the loft probably not helping matters - but there’s a fire still burning in the hearth and the rising heat feels good against Dean’s chilled skin. Home is home.
He sets the bucket down on the kitchen table with a heavy thump, no regard for the fact that even more water sloshes out at the movement. Table could probably use a good scrubbing, too, but there’s a thick sheet of paper off to the side that’s in danger of being drenched, and he snatches it out of harm’s way without bothering to look at it. It’s not like they leave a whole lot of paper lying around, but Sam’s been doing his best to make sure this damn surety bond is never very far from view. It doesn’t take a city-born scholar to recognize it for what it is. Left out for dad to see when he gets back, no doubt. Cue: an inevitable argument.
He feels bad, he really does. But the list of things they can’t afford grows longer every year.
Setting the document in a safer place, he rubs his hands together to ease away another new set of forming blisters and the sharp chill that’s been setting in steadily since earlier in the afternoon. Still too warm for snow, but there’ll probably be some kind of storm tonight.
From his vantage point here in the kitchen, he can see his brother through the window, finishing up with whatever mucking about he was doing in the pumpkin patch and then disappearing around the side of the house to start up on some other chore. Paying the bond to get Sam started on an apprenticeship in the city just isn’t in the cards, even if it’s already four years overdue.
And alright, he gets it. Lawrence is claustrophobic at best, the small, hundred-man village the kind of place where you’re born, you live and you die without ever going much farther from its borders than a hunting trip or an odd-job delivery to one of the small communities ten miles over. And that’s not for Sam. Fine, but it’s not like that’s what Dean wants, either, and what are they supposed to do? Pack up and leave? It’s pretty much the same here as anywhere else.
With a quick pause to roll his shirtsleeves up higher on his elbows, Dean sets to scrubbing down their dishes, eyes watching for his brother through the kitchen window, while tallying up the days in his head like he hasn’t been keeping track religiously since their father left almost a full month ago. Sixty-odd days is hardly anything to start being concerned about, could take that long just to get as far as a city worth seeing. It’s nothing to be getting concerned about just yet, regardless of what other troubles they might be facing these days.
The unmistakable crackle of distant thunder says he was wrong about that storm - it’s gonna be a lot sooner than expected. And damn, those dark clouds out there sure came up quick.
How much can he count on Sam to be out there securing everything around the house for a storm? Probably not a whole lot, he reasons, watching as his brother rounds the corner back into view and disappears into the surrounding forest, axe in hand. Idiot. In this weather, really?
He stacks the last dish in place on one of the shelves over the wash basin and towels off his hands.
The first raindrops start to fall as he shuts the screen door behind him with a bang that’s half his frustration, half the wind that’s starting to pick up, setting the branches of the surrounding trees waving furiously, leaves looking fuller and more upturned as though they’re expecting a pretty hefty rainfall themselves.
Predictably, the only sign of Sam now that he’s out here is the dull thunking of axe against wood somewhere off in the forest. Dean ignores it, circling the house, moving buckets and loose bits of wood from unfinished projects into more secure locations. The trees at the edges of the homestead’s clearing offer good protection in most storms, but there’s no telling how bad the wind might get and the last thing they need is for stuff to go flying if thunderstorm turns tornado.
He’s just closing up the shutters on the west side of the house when the sound of hoof beats echoes up the path once more. They’re slower now, controlled. Whatever horse is coming up the trail is walking, probably led by someone else on foot by the sounds of it. Dean shuts the clasp on the last window and turns to face the trail head, eyes catching sight of the dark horse first.
“Sam!” There’s barely concealed excitement in his voice as he strides forward. His brother’s not going to want to miss this. If nothing else, it’ll give him a chance to start waving that surety bond around some more. Dad’ll be thrilled.
Only it’s not John Winchester that’s coming up the trail and into the clearing, leading the tall, black gelding that Dean’s so often seen galloping away, his father hunched over its back.
“Dean,” Bobby’s nodding at him by way of greeting as he brings the horse forward, heading towards the lean-to-turned-stable that they started housing the animal in when John brought him home for the first time, three or four years ago. “How are you boys getting on?”
Dean follows him, ignoring both the question and the worsening rain completely. “That the horse we heard come into town about an hour ago?”
“You heard that all the way up here?” The older man turns to the side, throwing the gelding’s lead rope over the hitch at the front of its makeshift stall before patting it on the neck. “This is the one. Haven’t seen any other beasts come storming down the road lately, anyway.”
He’s quiet, watching as Bobby gets the horse settled in, a thousand questions burning on the tip of his tongue. The man walks around the homestead like he owns the place and though Dean’s never minded the forwardness, now the way he knowingly grabs for a bucket, filling it with feed only serves to annoy. The calm deliberation to his movements makes Dean want to start shouting until the fact that John Winchester’s horse has just arrived in town without John Winchester is addressed.
“You planning on making any sort of comment on this?”
Bobby’s brow furrows and his shoulders go tense for a moment, but when he finally turns back towards Dean, his face is perfectly clear of any telling expression. “Nope.”
“No? You’ve got nothing at all on this one?”
“Not a thing.” He pats the horse on the neck once more and steps away. “Well, this storm’s not going to hold up on my account. Gotta get headed back down, don’t much fancy getting drenched through on the way home.”
Dean swallows and crosses his arms heavily against his chest, jaw set. The local jack-of-all-trades - or town drunk, depending on who you asked - might be something of a second father to him and Sam, but Dean’s not afraid to step into his way. “Bobby.”
“Look, Dean,” the older man’s eyes veer off to the side, not quite managing to meet his gaze. “John’s got two good legs and if he has to walk home, he’ll damn well do it. Hell, might even pick himself up a new horse and then look what you’ve got for yourself right here.”
The idea hardly even penetrates. John probably got this horse with a five-fingered discount as it is. But that only works at wayside inns and lonely farms in the middle of nowhere. They can’t just go around stealing here in Lawrence and feed’s expensive. What little they do have’s scarcely enough to support the three of them as it is without having to worry about a second animal on the homestead. John’s not going to get another horse unless it’s to sell it off later - Dean’s dreams of having a horse to himself be damned.
“Bobby.”
“Dean.” It’s half-mocking, but this time Bobby meets his eyes. They always knew that one of these days John was legitimately not going to come home. That one of the monsters he took such care to seek out and destroy would get the best of him. Can’t do what John Winchester does and expect to live forever. Just doesn’t work that way.
But Dean’s not ready for this. Not yet. Not with Sam still at home and the harvest needing to come in and the roof needing to be rethatched and the windows recaulked before winter.
“Give him a couple days, Dean - ”
“ - It’s already been a month - ”
“He’ll get word to you boys, or he’ll just show up.”
“Yeah. Yeah, sure.” Dean’s trying to picture what his father might be doing now if he’s still alive. Probably kicking himself for losing the horse, if he’s even noticed. Dean’s surprised that the beast knew how to get back to Lawrence at all. Unless, of course, John’s actually closer than it seems. “Think we should send out a search party?”
Bobby takes a moment to answer and when he does, it’s slow, deliberate . “I think you should give him a couple of days, like I said. The thing’s not even wearing a saddle, probably just got loose from an inn down the road and came running back this way the first time something spooked it.”
Dean nods sullenly along, as the first few raindrops that had started as he left the house not ten minutes ago grow heavier, plinking dully against the roof of the lean-to. In the distance, sheet lightning illuminates the clouds. “Guess you’d better head back down. Thanks for bringing the horse up for us.”
Bobby’s nodding, already moving towards the pass that leads down to the village. It’s not a long walk, but the rain’s growing heavier with every passing minute. “Your dad’s fine, Dean, anything that woulda got him woulda got the horse, too.”
Dean holds onto this not-really-comforting thought as he closes up the makeshift stable and hurries to secure the shutters on the east side of the house.
* * *
By the time dawn yawns pink and gold across the sky, storm long since passed, Sam and Dean are on their way, both still tired from a late night spent roasting apples over the fire and discussing tactics for today’s planned search party.
Sam had come home only a few hours after Bobby’s departure, clothes soaked through but eyes bright after what Dean assumes was some time stolen with that one girl from the village. On his way in, he’d seen the horse and there’d been nothing between makeshift stable and front door to dissuade the idea that John would be inside.
Unlike Bobby, Sam hadn’t needed any convincing to start looking.
And they’re pretty much ready for anything now, between the two of them. Dean’s got a pack on his back stashed full to bursting with food, bandages, blankets and rope, and the one Sam’s got isn’t any lighter. The only thing they haven’t brought with them is the horse and that’s Dean’s only point of contention with the whole plan, right there.
Because, yeah, maybe it is more difficult to scour the woods with the horse in tow, but if dad’s hurt, what are they gonna do without it to bring him home on?
They’re following the road for now, though. Mostly because it seems pretty unlikely that John’s anywhere within a mile or two’s radius of town, and it’s a good enough place to start as any, muddy though it might be. Yesterday’s storm has left deep puddles in the wheeled tracks embedded from years of carriages and carts passing through this way. More carts than carriages, Dean reconciles in his head, not a heck of a lot of swank in this part of the country.
And speaking of swank.
“You just gonna make that face the whole way? It’s gonna stick if you - ”
“Shut up, Dean.”
And alright, maybe Sam’s allowed to give the world the stink face, having managed to submerge his boots in a puddle high enough to seep over the top, which can’t be all that comfortable. But Dean’s socks aren’t all that much more dry than his are and his ability to sympathize isn’t at its highest.
“You got another pair of socks in that pack of yours?”
“Shut up, Dean.”
Bobby’s house is the first one on the right on as they near the village. It’s a ramshackle building right at the edge of the main thoroughfare leading through town, the Winchesters’ closest neighbor. By mutual consensus, they skirt past the house on the side of the road it’s farthest from. Dean would like to avoid a second argument about whether or not they should be out looking for John, and Sam would like to avoid his first.
Fortunately, the older man doesn’t seem to be about as they put the house behind them and continue on their way.
It’s another mile and a half before they hit on their first planned stop and while the Road House’s windows are all shuttered against the morning sun, neither of them hesitates to push open the door and stride into the dark tavern.
The smoky haze from last night’s round of customers is still trapped inside by the closed shutters and as Dean’s eyes adjust to the darkness, he can see Sam ahead of him, moving past abandoned, beer-slick tables to the unmanned bar. His brother leans against the surface, meeting Dean’s gaze with a shrug. No one around.
Dean’s known Ellen Harvelle all his life, even spent a couple nights here as both a kid and a young man who’d had no hope in hell of making it home without falling down on his drunken ass, and he knows that early morning or not, she’s up.
He’s not disappointed.
“Boys.” The sound of Ellen’s voice from almost directly behind him has Dean jumping and he twists to look at the older woman, a scowl forming on his face. She laughs at him, pulling the front door shut as she moves through the room, joining Sam by the bar and dropping her elbows against the stained oak counter. “Been long enough without either of you coming by this way, huh?”
“Hi, Ellen,” Sam murmurs guiltily and Dean pulls up one of the stools, taking a seat as his brother leans casually next to him, lanky body long against the bar counter.
“You two wouldn’t be here because of a horse that came storming through town yesterday, would you?”
Sam’s quick to nod and Dean peers at her quietly, waiting for some kind of guarded expression to fall into place, but Ellen’s face is perfectly smooth, bar the few wrinkles she’s gained after a lifetime of keeping control over a rowdy group of alcoholic hunters.
She sees right through the hard gaze, just like he knew she would. “What, you thought I’d know something more about it than anyone else? I haven’t seen John Winchester since he went blazing out of here at the top of the summer, two months ago. You boys aren’t worried are you?” Her expression softens, “You know, the season’s not quite over yet. He might be on his way home right now and wouldn’t you two look foolish for wasting the time to come all the way out here.”
“This John Winchester’s horse we’re talking about?” The rough drawl comes from a darker corner of the room and Dean has to squint through the bar’s smoky haze to recognize Gordon Walker. A hunter only a little older than Dean himself, they’re tentative friends based on the handful of times they’ve both been in the Road House simultaneously. John’s never had a particularly low opinion of him either, so Dean’s willing to let him into the conversation despite the condescension in his tone.
“Yeah. John Winchester’s horse,” Sam shoots out, eyes hard. He and Dean have never exactly had matching opinions of the hunter.
“Now, come on, you boys know that horse probably just got loose at some inn down the road. I can think of any number of things that might have happened.” Ellen’s voice sounds kind of pinched, like she can really only think of one logical reason for the horse to break free and come barrelling home, and it’s the same reason Dean and Sam are thinking of. “Maybe you’d better give it a couple days before you start worrying about it.”
“Or maybe you’d better think about manning up around that homestead of yours, Dean,” Gordon’s grinning at him broadly, smile never quite reaching his eyes. “Because the last time I saw John Winchester, he was talking to one of those war recruiters.”
Sam and Dean exchange a quick glance. War recruiters haven’t made it as far as Lawrence yet, but it can only be a matter of time before one of them makes their way even to their small village, despite the town’s best attempts to keep them out - there’s a set of sign-post sized holes near the road about five miles out, where the signs identifying Lawrence have been removed. But getting rid of the signs isn’t going to be enough and Dean’s been sort dreading the day the war’s finally brought to their doorstep. And he knows John’s been worried about it, too.
He doesn’t mind either way, fighting for either Infernum or Celestis, their neighbors to the north and the south. But he does mind Sam getting recruited into a war that doesn’t even involve them. Or worse, his brother enlisting himself. Because he’s a hundred percent certain that that thought’s crossed Sam’s mind at least once.
It’s probably his plan B when dad finally says no to the apprenticeship.
“Which side were they recruiting for?” His brother’s moving in closer, looking down on Gordon with all the authority his height can muster.
Unfortunately, the hunter’s completely unfazed. “Couldn’t say, didn’t want to get any closer myself.” He’s staring right back at Sam like he’s nothing, like he hardly even notices the six feet, four inches of Samuel Winchester bearing down on him. “Might have been recruited.”
Ellen’s eyes skirt between the group and she places a hand on Dean’s shoulder, the light weight of her touch enough to keep him from doing what he’d really like to do right now. Which is punch Gordon Walker in the face. “Now, I think we all know that John Winchester’s not exactly the war’s biggest supporter. I can’t see him taking either side on this one.”
Sam glances at Dean helplessly for a moment, and Dean knows the feeling. “The war recruiters aren’t exactly interested in whether you want to join a side or not.”
His brother’s got a point here. A very, very valid one. News from the front lines doesn't trickle down to Lawrence as quickly or as often as they might like, but he knows - everyone knows - that both sides are equally persuasive in recruiting to their cause. Terra’s got absolutely no stake in the issue; some kind of royal sibling rivalry in Celestis that managed to push one of the continent’s high princes into creating a stronghold for himself in Infernum. Trouble is, to get to Infernum, the Celestial armies have to cross right through Terra. And neither side has any qualms about using Terra’s population to further its war efforts.
Dean’s spent long, sleepless nights talking with Sam at length about this in their shared loft bedroom. The issue that’s created the war is so specific, so isolated, that it’s difficult to choose who to support. On one hand, who’s to say that High Prince Lucifer doesn’t have a right to break free from his family and start a new life in Infernum? Granted, of course, that by starting a new life he’s actually taken over the desert continent for himself, but gotta give a guy points for incentive, right?
Sam’s never been especially committed to either side, his focus more on the prospect of fulfilling that damn apprenticeship in one of the big cities that’s providing goods for the war efforts. In the long run, which side doesn’t even matter. When it comes to the two continents skirmishing, no one seems to be pulling any punches.
“Look, if you’re really that worried about your father, why don’t you just go find out for yourselves?”
Dean scowls, turning on Gordon even as Ellen’s hand tightens on his shoulder, but she gets in her own words first.
“I think you’ve sobered up enough to try heading home, Walker.”
The other hunter nods knowingly, he can recognize when he’s been dismissed. “Thanks for letting me stay the night, Ellen. I’m sure I’ll be back around.”
She nods, no sense in losing paying customers, no matter how insufferable. When the front door finally closes shut behind him, her attention whips back to the brothers. “You boys would be fools to go out there.” Her voice softens and her gaze fastens finally on Dean. “But you’d have to be plenty foolish to stay.”
He knows what she means. Knows exactly what she means. It’s no secret that John Winchester’s never been the most amiable of fathers. And while Dean wouldn’t go so far as to say that he more or less kept them tied up at the homestead all their lives, it’s not exactly untrue either. He’s twenty-two now and he’s never really been much further than Lawrence.
But here it is. Here’s their chance. Their chance to go out and find their father, for Dean to prove to him that he can be just as capable as a hunter, in the field, as he is doing chores at home.
“Listen, most of the recruiting officers operate out of Limbus. If you boys head out that way, you’re bound to find someone who knows about your father. At the very least whether he was enlisted or not; I wouldn’t put it past Walker to make something up.” She’s moving around to the other side of the bar now, pulling out a grubby bit of paper and a pencil that looks like it doesn’t have a lot of life left in it. “I know someone in Limbus, a friend of Bill’s. I’m sure he’ll help you boys out when you get to the city. Name’s Carver Edlund.”
Dean scans the page when she hands it over to him. It’s half address, half diagram, but he thinks he can find his way there once through the city’s gates. And while the road to Limbus is the only road there is, it’s still a day and a half’s walk at least to reach the port city, perfectly situated on the coast and the easiest hub of travel
between the three continents.
“Alright. We’ll go.”
Sam shoots him a quick sideways glance, but keeps his mouth shut the entire time that Ellen makes them up a quick lunch and some food for breakfast and dinner. And just like that, the whole “looking for dad” thing has gotten bigger than either of them expected.
* * *
About a mile or so outside of the village, the road turns to an incline and Dean notices that next to him, Sam’s steps are increasing to match pace with his own until they’re both flat out running to reach the top of the rise. They pause, panting, to glance back at the village spread out around them, the cottages sprawled out like children’s toys, smoke rising from chimneys against the chill of another impending thundershower.
The wind’s whipping at Sam’s hair and threatens to bite through Dean’s leather jerkin and while his brother eyes the village, Dean finds himself watching him.
He’s grown up a lot over the past couple of years. More than is really noticeable when you’re stuck in a horse-and-pony kind of town like Lawrence, with no hope of escape. Sure, it’s probably always been expected that they’ll both follow in John’s footsteps as hunters, but neither of them have ever actually been allowed to accompany their father on any of his travels.
And now it’s finally their turn. Dean feels a a sharp sense of irony at the thought since what they’re hunting is him.
“One last goodbye?”
Sam turns, startled out of whatever thought had held him frozen, staring at Lawrence. “You don’t think we’ll be back?”
The corner of Dean’s mouth lifts in a smirk. “You want to come back?”
His brother is quiet for a moment, pensive as his eyes travel back over the village, taking in every last detail. Dean follows the gaze as it passes over the main thoroughfare, to Bobby’s and then up to the barely visible clearing on the opposite side of the valley where their own home is. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”
“Really?” Dean had always thought that Sam was the one most eager to get out of here. To head down to Limbus or Topkea, start new in some place with lots of people and no hunters. Isn’t that what the damn bond’s for? And for all of the times that his brother could have decided that what he’s already got is all that he’s ever wanted, he would pick now. Right now, when Dean’s at his absolute happiest. “Mr. Get-Me-An-Apprenticeship-So-I-Can-Get-Out-Of-Here wants to stay home? Why?”
“Wanting an apprenticeship doesn’t mean I don’t want to live in Lawrence, Dean. Besides, there’s Jess and the homestead, the Impala.”
Dean’s mind travels over to Jessica Moore and as usual, the little pang of jealousy he’s always felt but never admitted when it comes to his brother’s probable-fiancée gnaws at his stomach. It’s not that he wants his brother’s girl, but there’s just not a whole lot of variety in Lawrence and bar a couple well-spent evenings, he’s never found the kind of commitment that Sam’s got with Jess.
And her, he gets. But seriously, his brother’s worried about the house? The horse? “Bobby’ll look after them.”
Sam grumbles something and, given the vein of their conversation, Dean can only imagine it’s got something to do with Bobby looking after his girl.
“Look, Sam, she’s not the one going to Limbus. We are. She’s gonna be just fine, right here, and we’re going to find dad. It’s what we do, isn’t it? It’s what hunters do.” He gently cuffs his brother’s shoulder and turns away, lopsided smirk growing into a full out grin. “Besides, knowing our luck, dad’s just up ahead ready to kick our butts right back home.”
“Dean - ”
“And in case he’s not, last one down the hill has to take first watch tonight.”
Sam shoots him an indulgent smile of his own and takes off down the path.
* * *
“Hey. Wake up.” Dean shoulders Sam awake, already working on pulling apart last night’s meager campsite. He kicks apart the rocks circling the campfire pit as his brother stretches out his long limbs, rising to his feet. “We’re gonna hit Limbus today.”
Sam’s step is just a little bit brisker as the dirt road turns to stone, the sloppy stonemasonry becoming more and more well-crafted as they get closer to the city walls. The foot traffic increases dramatically with every hundred or so feet, and up ahead Dean can see where the carts and horses and people all converge into the one open gate in front of them. The noise and the bustle is more than they’ve ever encountered in Lawrence; ever encountered anywhere.
Limbus is a port town and the hustle and bustle of the city today reflects this completely. There are travelers, merchants, and army officers from either side of the war, with all the scuffling that throwing these two sides together creates. The crush of bodies is overwhelming and Dean can already see Sam’s attention starting to waver as they pass through the gates, carried forward amid the wave of foot traffic through the trellised entranceway. “Hey,” he reaches out to grab his brother’s collar, jerking him backwards before he can loose him in the crowd. “We’re looking for Ellen’s friend, remember?”
Sam looks visibly disappointed to be denied this chance to explore, but Dean knows there’s gonna be plenty of time for that later. He even says as much, but it doesn’t seem to help remove the hang-dog expression from his brother’s face, as Sam’s eyes continue to drift over the shops they pass. Dean doesn’t call him out on it again because truthfully, he can hardly blame him. There’s so much going on, so much more than either of them are used to, that it’s easy to get caught up in the street performers and the stalls and the animals and the action taking place all around them.
But he’s got Ellen’s directions in his head as he leads through the western part of town towards the darker, less crowded streets that boast Limbus’ more magically-inclined community.
John Winchester had never exactly had a solid belief in magic. Monsters, sure. Vamps and werewolves, the kind of things that parents tell their children about when warning them away from the forest’s edge. But straight magic that can be used by a single person? Nothing but smoke and mirrors. Dean doesn’t adhere to the same strict set of beliefs, but real or not, it’s probably more trouble than it’s worth.
The idea isn’t shared in Limbus apparently. The Mage Quarter is rife with magic shops, potion sellers, fortune tellers, apothecaries and some other vaguely sinister looking storefronts.
Sam’s attention is drawn to a particularly musty-looking bookstore, but once again Dean steers him back on course. They’re looking for the open book and jagged lightning bolt mark of Mage Edlund, and he’s got no intention of stopping until they find it.
Sam spots it first, of course, which Dean attributes to his height since the sign is in the second story window of one of the narrow row houses that makes up the street. From the looks of it, Mage Edlund doesn’t even own the entire building. The first floor shop appears to deal in love potions and both brothers skirt and the entrance and the sickly sweet smell emanating from the open doorway as they move towards the rickety external stairs that snake up the eastern side of the building.
The door at the junction for the second floor is closed tight, heavy blinds drawn against what little sunlight makes it into this part of the street, well shaded by the tall buildings surrounding it. Edlund’s mark is here on the door as well, just underneath and window and burnt into the dark, stained wood.
“Doesn’t look like Ellen’s friend is all that reputable.”
“Save it, Sam.” Dean reaches hesitantly for the knob because real or not, this guy might have something up his
sleeve, but it twists easily in his grip and opens.
There’s a strong musty smell to the building, and Dean sneezes as he pushes into the room, shooting Sam a quick sideways glance as soon as he recovers. His brother got one hand over the hilt of the bowie knife slung in his belt and Dean nods, satisfied, as he faces forward.
There’s no sign of the mage that he can see and Sam’s expression is just as perplexed as his own, eyebrows furrowed as he scans the room for life. His brother shrugs finally, no one here, but as soon as Dean steps forward away from the door, it opens once more behind him.
“Oh, Chuck, I didn’t - ” The young woman who’d pushed the door in halts mid-sentence, eyes taking in Sam and Dean, but lingering a little too obviously on Sam. “Hello.”
The pair blink back at her and she smiles blithely, moving further into the shop. Dean doesn’t recognize the cut of her clothing, short, flowy skirt and a top that looks an awful lot lacier than anything he’s seen the girls back home wearing. Must be a city thing. “Is there anything I can help you with?” She asks, eyes bright. Dean gets the distinct impression from where exactly those eyes are pointed - still on Sam - that the “you” doesn’t exactly apply to him.
“We’re looking for Mage Edlund,” he comments, watching the way her gaze trails Sam’s body, barely suppressing a snort at the uncomfortable way his brother leans away from her. “This is his place, right?”
She nods and moves towards what might be the shop’s counter and till area or might just be a cluttered work bench. It’s difficult to tell with all the inkwells and pages strewn across it and every other surface in the shop. If it’s even a shop. It might just be this guy’s house. “He must have stepped out for a minute, but you’re definitely in the right place.” She holds out a delicate hand, extended towards Sam, of course and - is that a blush? - smiles. “Becky Rosen. I own the shop downstairs.”
Oh. The love potions. Dean does snort now, Sammy better be careful.
“What brings you boys here?”
“Friend of the family,” Dean tries. Not exactly the truth, but not not. “We’re looking for someone.”
“Becky?” A flustered voice announces itself from behind the thin curtain strung up in the doorway to the next room and Becky appears to straighten, holding herself just a little higher.
Her smile broadens and she tilts her head in the direction of the curtain. “We have company!”
“Co- company?” A very short, very frazzled looking man appears in the doorway, curtain pushed to the side with a thin pair of hands. Dean gets the immediate impression that if magic does exist, this guy doesn’t have a single magic bone anywhere in his body - though given the state of the shop, it’s possible he’s got a couple bones just lying around. He wonders, for a moment, if that’s just how magic works. “To what do we - uh - owe the honor?”
Sam blinks at him, brow furrowed. Dean can tell that his brother is just as impressed as he is. “Isn’t this a shop?”
Now the mage is blinking, bleary eyed. “Oh. Well, yes. But - ”
“You don’t get very many customers,” Sam finishes for him and Dean recognizes that tone. His brother doesn’t think this Mage Edlund can help them and so far, he’s not especially inclined to disagree.
Chuck shrugs, having the good grace to at least look a little contrite at the suggestion that he’s not exactly all that he’s cracked up to be. “Business is slow.”
“You’d think with a war going on, someone might have recruited you to their side already.”
The mage turns away, moving behind his workbench to sift through some papers. “What - what did you say you were here for exactly?”
Dean decides it’s probably a good idea to step in before Sam scares the poor guy off of helping them completely and holds up the bit of paper with his address written on it. Edlund’s eyes trail to the page and then up to Dean, clearly nervous. “You’re a friend of Bill Harvelle’s?”
“Oh. Oh - yes.” His eyes seem to light up a little. “He’s a hunter. Yes, I’ve worked with him before.”
“Well, his widow sent us.” Dean tries to ignore the fact that the use of the word “widow” has made the mage’s face fail . Apparently Edlund wasn’t aware of the hunting accident that had taken Ellen’s husband’s life two summers ago. “We’re looking for our father, John Winchester. You might have heard of him? He worked with Bill, too.”
There’s no immediate recognition on the mage’s face, but he nods, a little nervous, a little mousy, but resolved and that’s something Dean can appreciate. “I mean, no, I don’t know him. But I can help you. Show you around Limbus, get you to the right people. I can’t promise anything, but I can help.” He nods again as though cementing the idea to himself and then rifles through the scrawl of pages once more. “Where are you two staying?”
The brothers exchange a glance.
“You - you want to stay here?”
“I don’t see the harm of it,” Becky cuts in, eyes bright as her gaze shifts over to focus on Sam once more. “We never have any guests.”
* * *
The sleeping arrangements aren’t perfect. Okay, well, they aren’t even good. Turns out business has been bad enough that “bedroom” to Edlund is just a lumpy mattress on the floor in the shop’s back room. Even the poorest family in Lawrence had been able to do better than that and having to push aside the mess of papers that sprawls through the entire apartment to find space on the floorboards for themselves has both Sam and Dean thinking fondly of their well-stuffed straw mattresses back home.
“What’s all this for anyway?” Sam asks when they sit down for dinner a couple hours later. Black bread and cheese, not exactly the kind of fare that Dean had expected when it was decided they’d be staying with the mage. “All the pages?”
“They’re runes,” Edlund answers after taking a moment to swallow. “Fire magic.”
Dean and Sam exchange a quick glance. If the mage can get a fire going - which in itself is doubtful - it’s probably pretty unlikely that he can put it out. Good to know that the entire apartment is full of the highly flammable pages.
“So, Edlund, what’s the plan for tomorrow?” Dean tries. They haven’t exactly figured out how Ellen’s friend is going to prove useful to them beyond the rather shabby roof over their heads.
“Oh, uh, you can call me Chuck. ‘Carver Edlund’ is my... professional name.”
Chuck. Somehow that’s way more fitting. Truth is, Dean’s pretty sure that the man’s a fraud. Even Becky from downstairs - who’s joined them for dinner - seems more legit with whatever magic she claims to possess. She certainly seems to believe in it anyway, given as she’s already tried to slip something into Sam’s drink.
More than once.
Which had been funny at first. But Dean can sense his brother getting more and more annoyed as the night continues. By breakfast the following morning, his brother is practically seething.
“So, we can head out into the town square and take a look. Whatever squad your father might have been assigned to might still be out here.” Chuck seems tentative as he leads them out into the street, Becky accompanying them. “Things are a little blurry now that some of the Celestial knights are starting to defer.”
Dean glances at Chuck, interest piqued. “They’re switching sides?”
“Yeah, well, when Lucifer took over Infernum, he took a pretty sizable chunk of army along with him. It’s got his brother pretty angry.” He leads them down a narrow alleyway that takes them out of the Mage’s Quarter and onto the main thoroughfare leading from the city gates. The crowds are thicker here and Dean can just catch a strip of ocean view between the narrow buildings. “Story goes, and I haven’t had this confirmed or anything, but story goes: Lucifer is looking to recruit the younger princes, too. Michael’s sent the younger one into hiding, he’s worried about what kind of influence Lucifer might have on him.”
Dean doesn’t think he can even name all of Celestis’ princes. Whenever he thinks he’s got them right, it always turns out that there’s one or two more.
It’s something Sam would know, but judging by the annoyed expression on his brother’s face, now’s not the best time to go about bringing that up. Dean’s not entirely sure what it is that’s got him so pissed off. Not getting to wander around Limbus isn’t the kind of thing that would really upset him. Homesickness, maybe?
They don’t find John amongst any of the garrisons still stationed in the city and it takes the better part of the day to come to the conclusion that if he ever was here, he’s not anymore. The realization has Chuck frazzled by the idea that the brothers are going to be staying longer now but Sam, Dean can tell, is just done.
He tries to engage his brother in some kind of conversation as they walk back through the city at dusk, worn out and defeated, but Sam’s not interested in talking. He’s not interested in anything apparently, and when they stop in at Becky’s for dinner, he begs off, heading upstairs to Chuck’s shop to go to bed early.
Dean catches him sneaking back down about an hour later and corners him in the street, the growing shadows hiding him against the side of the neighboring building.
“So that’s it, huh?”
Sam startles but holds his ground. Dean can see the way his fists clench, knuckles whitening. “He’s not here, Dean.”
“Maybe not. That doesn’t mean someone here doesn’t know where he is.”
“Nobody knows where he is. Nobody even cares.” His brother throws his hands out to emphasize the point, “He’s just some guy that’s probably been dragged into some stupid war and that’s it. We’re done here, Dean. That’s it.”
Dean’s shoulders tense. He’d been expecting some kind of argument, but not one like this. “Look, Sam - ”
“I came, didn’t I? You wanted to look for dad, so I came. I didn’t argue about it, I didn’t fight you. But he’s not here.”
The empty street seems suddenly that much smaller now that his brother’s practically shouting, claustrophobic and when Dean finally answers, his voice is soft. “This about that meeting in Whitefish?”
His brother takes a breath and nods. “I have to go.”
Watching Sam turn and stalk off, Dean doesn’t even have the heart to chase him down.
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