Putting the Fün Back in Dysfünctional (5/6)
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Putting the Fün Back in Dysfünctional
Author: greenthumb421
Artist: annartism
Summary: Laughing used to come easy to the Winchester boys.Sometimes Sam thinks they'll never really laugh again. Sam n' Dean, worn down by Bobby's death, Sam's hallucinations of Lucifer, lack of sleep, and the (temporary) loss of the Impala, decide to take a week or two off from hunting, rest up, and try to have some fun, see if they can remember how to laugh. The old Reilly 'House of Death' case in Pittsburgh, PA, seems like a nice, non-urgent case to chew over while they kick back and catch up on sleep. Unfortunately, the hyena demons infesting the house have other ideas.
Characters: Dean, Sam, Sheriff Jody Mills and OMC's.
Pairings: Gen. No, really! Okay, some if-you-squint slashiness, but no worse than canon.
Disclaimer: No profit, no glory, just borrowing the boys from Kripke and the CW.
Rating: PG-13 for language, violence
Word Count: approx 33,000
Warnings: Spoilers through 7.12 Time After Time. Language. (Seriously, gratuitous overuse of the F-bomb.) Misuse of the Pittsburghese dialect, the Ethiopian Christian Church, italics (and parentheses), Trojan condoms, and stuffed cats (but not together, ewwww). And epically long run-on sentences.
.pdf version, created by annartism (thanks, hon!)
The freakin' awesome artworks by annartism can all be seen here, including some tinted versions not seen with the story. Be sure to look for all the hilarious 'Lord of the Rings' references in the scene she created of Sam sitting on his bed!
Song lyrics taken from Bruno Mars' Grenade.
Many thanks go to my primary beta namichan89 for reading and cheerleading and idea bouncing and for making me laugh. The world would be a better place with more sweet souls like you.
Thanks also to my backup beta vyperdd for her emergency handholding and critical feedback. Also, thank you to paleogymnast, one of the mods of the immensely helpful omgspnbigbang, for taking the time to answer my questions and lend a helping hand. Finally, thank you to slightlysatanic, the other mod of omgspnbigbang, and to wendy and thehighwaywoman, mods of spn_j2_big_bang. Our fandom rocks because of people like you ladies!
Putting the Fün Back in Dysfünctional
Master Post Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6
It's not that easy, of course.
Because Sam is a pissy bitch who will not stop arguing.
Since the hyena-shadow-demon-whatthefuckever has no human host to plunge Ruby's knife into, no heart to shoot with the Colt, their only option is to send it on a one-way trip to Hell. Which means they need a way to immobilize the damn thing long enough to exorcise it.
“Devil's trap to contain it, squirt it with holy water to weaken it, read the exorcism, yadda yadda, no more demon, and it's Miller time. What's the holdup? Let's go.”
“How do we get it into the devil's trap?” Sam asks.
“Lure it in.” Buh? Dean's expression says. It's what they always do.
“With what? It's only interested in killing Reillys. You willing to sit Jon Reilly in the middle of a devil's trap? Wait for the shark to smell the chum, and cross your fingers that we can yank him out the very instant the demon crosses the line?”
“Sounds like a plan. Let's go.”
“It's fucking dangerous, Dean. Have you taken a good look at us lately? Neither one of us is operating at full strength. We'll get him killed.”
Sam is doing that annoying looming thing he does, standing over Dean's chair with his arms spread wide to make himself look even fucking bigger than he is, the fucking sasquatch.
Dean considers kicking Sam's feet out from under him, but instead takes a deep breath, and chants to himself pissy bitch waiver card, pissy bitch waiver card. “I'm listening,” he says, and wonders when his balls were surgically removed, 'cause damn if he doesn't sound like some Dr. Phil wannabe. With way cooler hair, of course.
“This thing is not just a scary shadow on the wall, Dean. It's a free-roaming demon with no corporeal form, and it can move things, and if it can move things, it can sure as shit kill a defenseless human.”
“Salt rounds and iron shot will slow it down. And shadow demons aren't real fond of bright light, am I right? We could work with that.”
“Probably,” Sam says.
“Still, they're demons, right? Which means they can't cross salt lines, and can't escape devil's traps.”
Sam's pacing now, clutching at his (flowing, luxuriant, shampoo-commercial,, running-into-Heathcliff's-arms-on-the-moor, for-god's-sake-get-a-haircut-Sam) hair with one hand while gesturing with the other. “And something else. All those search results I found for hyenas? They all agreed on one thing. Hyenas hunt in packs.”
Oh. That is definitely something new and interesting to ponder.
Dean sighs.
Sam stops pacing, and the tension in the room drops down a notch or ten.
Sam smiles, his crooked apologetic smile that has become so familiar since their lives turned to shit. “I'm not pussying out, man. Honest. But I am scared shitless that I might make a simple mistake that gets you killed. I mean, you're the only reason I still get up in the morning, you know? ... So. We need to know more about what we're up against before we risk going in, guns blazing. Agreed?”
Dean nods. There's an odd lump in his throat. Dunno why.
“Cool. Then I suggest we consult the experts. There's an old Ethiopian Christian church in Pittsburgh's Hill District. What do you bet that one of their members was the genius who crafted this kitab amulet a century ago?”
“Seems likely,” Dean says, reaching for his own laptop. Five minutes later, he points at his screen while Sam leans over the back of his chair. “Okay, here we go. The only people who make kitab amulets are deacons of the E.C. church, some position called a Dabtara. So there's definitely a connection there. What's even more cool is that Dabtaras, when they're not sweeping the church and washing the priest's delicates, also train to perform exorcisms of tabibs. Keep your fingers crossed, Sam. We might still be able to wrap this up tonight.”
Sam is already reaching for his cell, punching in the church's number.
It's bizarre, listening to Sam's half of the conversation with the church's priest.
“Yes, hello, we've got a demon situation and - No, sir, I'm dead serious. Do you have a Dabtara that we could speak with? Ah, glad to hear that.” Big thumbs up in Dean's direction, then he's jotting down the info. “Albert. Smith. Oh, he is? Right now? Yes, sir, if you could, that would be great.” He raises his eyebrows at Dean. “He's asking the Dabtara if he'll come talk to us today... Yes, sir? Oh, we're very sure it's demon-related... Well, uh …. “ He looks at Dean. “We kind of hunt them.” He sits up straight, looking shocked. “I...Yes, sir, we are. Sorry, I'm just surprised that you've heard of our line of work.” They know about hunters, he mouths to Dean, wide-eyed. “So you'll send the Dabtara today? That's great! Oh, can you mention that we have a damaged kitab, and if he could fix or replace it - Yes, sir, thank you.”
He rattles off the motel's address and their room number, thanks the priest again, and hangs up, looking a bit stunned. “Apparently the E.C. Church is the triple-A of demon infestation and amulet repair. He'll be here in less than an hour, or the first exorcism is free.”
“Huh. Guess we better clean up the place.” Dean looks around, really seeing the mess for the first time. “Why is there never a flamethrower around when you need one.”
Sam is packing away the weapons Dean's left scattered like used tissues about the room (“Sam, they already know we're hunters, why bother hiding them?” “Because they might know we're hunters, but they don't have to know we're slobs.”) when he abrubtly says, “Dean. We have to call Jon Reilly. Like, right now."
“Huh?” Dean looks at him, then at the kitab sitting in its curse box. “Oh. We've got his crapped-out protection amulet. And it's been almost a week.” He reaches for his phone. “Hope he's got plenty of salt in the house.”
“Make sure he knows that simply leaving the house won't keep him safe,” Sam says. “The buda's demon will still track him down. At least one of his ancestors died overseas when the kitab amulet's protection was compromised.”
“I knew it,” Jon is saying in Dean's ear a minute later. “An honest-to-pete curse, huh? And this demon-on-a-leash thing is what's making stuff move around in the house?”
“Yeah. Wait, you saying the activity's ramped up since we saw you?”
“Damn right it has. Yesterday, some pictures flew off the wall in the office, and the morning before that, all the cupboards in the kitchen were wide open when I got up. Really freaked me out. And man, you should see what this sick fuck did to that poor stuffed cat in the parlor --”
“We'll bring the new protection amulet to the house before nightfall,” Dean says hastily. “Okay, here's what you do to stay safe until then. First, gather up all the salt you can lay hands on, including any sidewalk salt you might have.” He talks Jon through setting up a Winchester Safe Zone (all rights reserved) in his home, a large circle of salt drawn around a comfy chair, a sixpack of his beer of choice, and the t.v. remote. “Man's gotta have his necessities of life,” he tells Sam, who rolls his eyes, but gets on with tidying up the motel room. "Oh, and we might be bringing an expert with us."
"What kind of expert?"
"Oh, just... You know. An Ethiopian exorcist. Gotta go, bye."
"Wait --"
“I hope he's not too traditional, this Dabtara,” Sam mutters. “The really strict ones insist on a formal greeting, where the lower class person prostrates himself facedown on the floor.“
“Which would definitely be us,” Dean sighs, contemplating a pyramid of beer cans on the nightstand.
They both look at the grungy motel room carpet. No way, no how.
“Can't we just say Hi there, how's it going, Gandalf? Or maybe Go Steelers?”
Princess Pissy Bitch - who's been missing for so many hours that Dean was starting to look for her on milk cartons - makes a brief appearance as Sam says, “Just try to be polite, okay? ... Besides, it's much more likely that he'll do the other greeting.”
“Which is what?”
“You're not going to like this.” Sam manages to look both non-judgemental-of-other-cultures and peevishly amused at the same time. (Sometimes, Sam's expression attempts the facial equivalent of an Olympic ice skater doing a quadruple Salchow. It's kinda hilarious, when he manages to nail the landing. Otherwise, he sprains his face, and walks around looking constipated for a week, which is also amusing.) “It's a solid hour of How are you, Thanks be to God I'm fine, How is your mother, Thanks be to God she's fine, How is your potato crop, Thanks be to God it's fine --”
“Yeah,” Dean sighs. “I should have listened to my guidance counselor in high school. I could be burning someone's fries right now.”
“Dean? What's this?” Sam's holding up a scrap of paper with a phone number and “Dr Peter Holtz, Milwaukee Medical Center” scribbled on it in Dean's handwriting.
Shit. “That, uh. That would be a doctor that Sheriff Mills found for me.”
Sam's eyes flick over his brother's body, doing a quick inventory of injuries, old and new. "Something you're not telling me?" He sounds calm and mildly curious.
Dean knows better. "No, man, I'm fine," he says.
“Oh. Okay.” He huffs out a nervous cough of relief, then - “Oh.” After a moment, Sam nods, stiff-necked, then flashes an embarrassed smile. "Guess that means I'm not okay?"
“Hey, man, whatever you're thinking, just stop right there, all right?” Dean steps forward, grips Sam's shoulder. He takes the paper from Sam's hand, holds it up. “This? This is someone who maybe can help out with your nightmares. That's all it is. It's not me giving up on you, and it's not me saying you're dangerous, or should be locked up, or any bullshit like that. You hearing me, Sammy?” He waits until he gets a shaky nod in reply. “You don't have to check into a hospital, don't have to talk to anybody, don't have to do a fucking thing, if that's what you decide. It's totally your call. This number is for you to hold onto, for you to decide to ever use it or not. Understand?”
Sam blinks hard a few times, then clears his throat. “Okay.” He stares at the paper when Dean pushes it into his hand and steps back. “Some sort of sleep specialist?”
“Yeah. We tried to find someone with hunter connections, but no such luck. Sheriff says he specializes in PTSD patients, mostly homeless war veterans. He's not real picky about health insurance, does a lot of pro bono work.” He doesn't need to clarify why that's good. If Sam needs to see a specialist repeatedly, then they can't use stolen health insurance cards. He'd have to pay actual money, or hope to be taken on as a charity case.
“So, I wouldn't be able to tell him --”
“No. Pretty safe to say that the last five years of your life are off limits.”
“Unless I want to be locked up in a rubber room.” Sam sighs. “I'll keep this.”
“Good.” He swats Sam's chest with the back of his hand. “Cheer up, dude. If anyone gets to check into a cushy mental hospital, it's gonna be me. I've got a head start on the crazy, you know. You've got a lot of catching up to do.”
“Yeah, I know,” Sam agrees, then smiles his twisted smile when Dean glares at him. “Well, c'mon. Your obsession with pie? And the Dr Sexy thing, that can't be healthy. And the sleazy situation with the Mustang - Oh, don't look at me like that, you know she's a total slut.”
“Hey! We're having a brotherly moment here,” Dean growls. “You really want to spoil it with bloodshed?”
Sam shoves the paper in his pocket. “Thanks, man.”
Dean nods, relaxes just a bit.
Albert isn't quite what they were expecting.
When he opens the door to greet him, Dean very nearly hollers over his shoulder, “Honey, did we order a hippie?”
For one thing, Albert isn't so much a mature, dark-skinned Ethiopian shaman as he is a pale-skinned, college-aged skateboarder dude. There are some signs of African bloodlines in his facial features, but that was many generations ago. The long dreadlocks try to give his blond hair a dignified air and nearly succeed, but the Bart Simpson “Eat My Shorts” t-shirt negates that effort in a heartbeat. He wipes his hand on the seat of his cargo pants before holding it out to Dean. “Hey. Albert Smith. Yinz must be dem hunters?”
Dean shakes hands doubtfully. “Dean Winchester.”
“Sam Winchester.” His brother, ever the eager student, grabs the skinny kid's hand like it's a holy relic as soon as he's over the threshold. “How are you, Mr. Smith?”
“Call me Albert. Ah'm good, thanks. Sawry ah'm late n'at,” the kid says.
Dean squints, leaning in. “Say again?”
“How was your drive?” Sam offers.
“So-so. Traffic coming ahter dahntahn was rilly a bitch.”
“Yeah... No, I'm sorry,” Dean says, “you'll have to speak English.”
“Dean.”
“What? How can he help us if --”
“He's speaking Pittsburghese,” Sam hisses. He's jittery and practically wetting his pants with nerves and embarrassment, like they're being granted an audience with the Pope and Dean has just asked if he poops in the woods. No more Mountain Dew for Sammy. “So. How's your family, Albert?”
Dean winces. Kill me now. If Sam makes a move to prostrate himself on the floor, Dean plans on a well-aimed kick to the prostate.
“Doing good, thanks.” He gives Sam a curious look, but instead says to Dean, “Hey, s'okay. It's a Burgh thing. My college friendser alla time jaggin on me baht d'accent. Yinz'll get used to it, won't even notice it after a bit.”
“And how is school going --”
“Hey, Sam? We're not in Ethiopia. If yinz wanna be polite to me, just say Go Stillers, 'kay?”
Sam deflates. “Ohthankgod. All I had left was 'How's your goat?'... What, Dean?”
Dean shuts down his grin, clears his throat. “Nothin'. Nothin' at all, Samwise. Go Steelers!”
“Fuck the Ravens!” their Gandalf replies, and bumps fists with Dean.
And it's true, they do get used to the accent, once they get used to hearing “n'at” (translation: “and that”) added to the end of sentences for no logical reason, and learn that “yinz” means the same as “y'all”. Dean still occasionally has to look to Sam for translations of some of the hairier phrases. When asked what metal he'll use for the amulet's chain, Albert's reply is “Oh arn n'at”. “Oh, iron... and that?” Sam frowns. And when Sam is showing him the Reilly's damaged kitab amulet, Albert's admiring, “Scratch my back widda hacksawr, that's sweet,” leaves Sam shaking his head in bewilderment. “Yeah, I got nothin'.”
“Don't sweat it, man, we'll do fine. Okay, let's get to it,” Albert says, looking around the motel room. “Sam, could yinz redd off that table for me?”
“Redd off … Oh, I know this one!” Sam grins, and hastily clears off the table.
“Thanks. First off, yinz should know, I may be young, but I do have some experience with this sort of thing.” He's placing ceremonial candles around the edges of the small table. “Making kitabs and doing exorcisms n'at. My papaw started teaching me when I was wee little. It's a patriarchal thing, passes down from father to son. And then I did two years of internship in Ethiopia right out of high school - saw some pretty hairy shit there, I can tell ya. Haven't been able to practice any of it since then, though,” he shrugs. “Not much call for kitabs in Pittsburgh these days.”
“What about exorcisms?” Dean asks, wanting to skip to the important shit. The protection amulet was nice to have, if not to look at, but really, once the demon (demons?) was exorcised, there'd be no need for it.
“Oh, yeah, I've done those. I did two during my internship,” he grins. His boyish enthusiasm makes him look like he's still
that teenaged intern.
Sam looks at Dean. Dean looks back, shrugs. They've been averaging one a week this past year.
“Two packs,” Albert clarifies, realizing he might have lost some points with them. “Four demons in one pack, five in the other.”
Dean's eyebrows go up. “By yourself?”
Albert shrugs, nods. “Yeah. That's how it works.”
Dean holds his gaze for a moment, then tips his head at Sam, who smiles. “Think this man needs a beer, don't you, Sam?”
“Yup.”
Albert grins. “I'm not old enough to drink until next fall, thanks, and besides, I'm praying. But I'll take a rain check on that, thanks. So, we make the new kitab now, and then we go see if we can't kick some demon ass, oakel-doakel?”
Dean finds himself grinning right back, liking the kid despite himself. He is content to sit back and let Albert take the wheel. The young Dabtara is the expert with this type of demon, and it doesn't pay to ignore expert advice. (I am scared shitless that I might make a simple mistake that gets you killed. You're the only reason I still get up in the morning, you know?)
Fashioning the kitab takes very little time. Albert lights the candles, then spreads out the tools of his trade, a round swatch of dark leather, compact rolled sheaf of handwritten prayers, bits of herbs and spool of silver thread, all the while muttering quietly to himself. Dean is able to follow it at first -- mostly Christian prayers with some n'at's thrown in to get the Lord's attention -- but after a bit, he realizes that he is no longer hearing Pittsburghese, or even English.
“I think he's speaking Ge'ez, the language of the Ethiopian Christian church,” Sam whispers beside Dean. The young Dabtara has stitched up the new kitab with silver thread, and is attaching its chain. It's a vast improvement over the old amulet. Yeah, this is a much fresher looking petrified burrito. Like maybe a zombie wouldn't vomit if it had to touch it with a ten-foot pole. “Ge'ez is a dead language, used only for rituals and services, just like the Catholic church uses Latin.... Hey, Dean, are you thinking what I'm thinking?”
“That by tomorrow you'll be able to tell drunk lesbians 'bite me' in Ge'ez?” Dean whispers back.
Sam grins. “It's like you know me.”
.
.
.
Jon opens the door looking nervous.
“Why aren't you sitting in a circle of salt?” Dean says instead of hello. He waves Albert ahead of him.
“I was, until the doorbell rang,” Jon says indignantly.
“Oldest trick in the book,” Dean scoffs.
“Hey,” Albert nods, hefting his forty-pound bag of road salt onto a safer perch on his shoulder, as he steps past the young homeowner. “I'm Albert. I'll be your exorcist this evening.”
An appreciative snort of laughter from Dean makes Sam grin.
“Hey,” Jon says faintly. “Look, are you sure this is necessary...”
Dean gives him a sardonic smirk as he goes past with his two bags of salt and duffel bag of weapons.
“Don't be nervous,” Sam says with a reassuring smile. “We're here to help.” He dumps his three bags of salt on the hallway floor with a muffled crash that rattles the windows and sends an expensive looking vase skittering off a table to smash on the floorboards. “Crap. Sorry.”
“Hope your homeowner's policy covers exorcism damages,” Dean says cheerfully as he and Albert lay down their bags with much less dramatic thuds.
Jon looks at the shards of broken porcelain. Then at the three rough-looking men before him. He opens his mouth, obviously about to tell them to get the hell out -
A door slams upstairs.
His polite smile is pinched but steady as he gives them a brief nod. “Welcome to the House of Death.”
“Don't make me kill you,” Dean says out of the corner of his mouth as Sam's hand twitches toward his cellphone.
“So that's what we've got so far,” Sam tells Jon. "We know what it is, and how to get rid of it. We just don't know how it all began."
Albert is looking around the office with great interest, examining items on the bookshelves and tabletops with occasional comments. “Hey, is this a Teenie?” he asks, pointing at a black and white photo on the wall. “Yup,” he answers himself, leaning in to read the typed caption. "Sure is."
“Couple more over here,” Jon offers nervously, and Albert comes over for a look.
"Charles 'Teenie' Harris,” Jon tells the Winchesters. “Famous African-American photographer, spent 40 years documenting African-American life in the Pittsburgh area. The white guy sitting in a restaurant in that one? That's my great-great-grandpa Daniel Reilly.”
Sam and Dean are peering over his shoulder by now. Until Albert stops sightseeing, they've got nothing better to do.
The picture shows a bland white businessman, mid-twenties, seated at a table, holding a foaming mug of beer. The other seats are filled by African-Americans, mostly men, all well-dressed, all relaxed and smiling for the camera. All of the dozens of people in the background are black, as is the pretty waitress posed in the foreground with her hands clasped together. Her belly is noticably swollen with pregnancy. “Waitress Felicia Danberry and customers, The Crawford Grill, 1929,” Sam reads aloud.
The same year as the stock market crash, Dean realizes. The same year the first Reilly died, here in this very room.
“That ain't just some restaurant,” Albert says, looking pleased. “The Grill, now that was the place to be, back then. Big time jazz club, kinda like the Cotton Club in Harlem, you know? They got international names in to play there over the years, Dizzy Gillespie and Sarah Vaughn n'at. The white musicians, they'd play their own gigs on the other side of town, then they'd come over to the Grill to jam with the black musicians. Pretty cool family heirloom,” he tells Jon, who nods, pleased.
“Uh, guys?” Sam is still staring at the photo. “I think I've heard of this waitress.” He looks at Dean. “There was a housemaid named Danberry on the payroll in the household ledger. Her name showed up for the first couple of months of 1929, then nothing more.” He lightly touches the photo's glass. “I think we know why she left. Unmarried black housemaid gets pregnant, she'd be out of a job faster than ....” His voice trails off.
“Problem?” Dean asks, alert for trouble.
“Idea,” Sam answers absently, still staring at the photo. “Well, now we know everything,” he muttered.
Dean gapes at him. “We do?”
“Mmmm. Oh, sorry, I was just thinking - Our boy Daniel doesn't look too happy to be sticking out like a sore thumb, so maybe there's another reason he's there besides Happy Hour. Like maybe,” he nods at the photo, “he followed her.” He lets that sink in for a moment.
“He's the baby daddy?” Dean asks. "Huh. And they couldn't just get married back then.”
“Nope. Inter-racial marriage was actually illegal in most states."
Albert chimes in, "And whooo, the stink his family woulda raised! Am I right?” He looks at Jon, who nods sheepishly. “And it woulda been every bit as bad to her family … Emigrated up from the South, where they were no better than trash under the white men's feet, come here to make a life doing honest work, being members in a real community with real pride... Now, I'm thinking, if our Felicia got pregnant by a white man, her family would be furious at him - “
“And there's the final connection,” Sam says, and smacks Dean on the back. Dean obligingly oof's. “Felicia's family wanted revenge on the man who got their daughter pregnant. They couldn't go directly after him and say, beat the living crap out of him - “
“They'd have been lynched if they laid a finger on him,” Albert shrugs. “So instead, they went looking for a tabib.”
“Wait, hold on,” Dean says. “Daniel wasn't the first victim. It was his father Ethan first, remember? Baby daddy lived another twenty-some years after this picture was taken.”
Albert nods slowly, thinking it over. “I think that the curse was meant to simply wipe out the men of the family, one after another, bing bang boom, but that immediately after Ethan's death, someone recognized what was happening and had my predecessor make the kitab amulet to protect Daniel and the rest of the family.”
“It was Felicia,” Sam says quietly. “Imagine how guilty she must have felt when she realized she was responsible ...” His eyes slide sideways to his brother, then away.
Dammit. Dean knows that look. Do we need to have The Talk again, Sammy? The 'You screwed up, but you did your time, Sam, now get off the Guilt Train' talk? 'Cause I'm more than happy to beat it into your thick skull -
The office door behind Jon slowly swings open, lazy hinges creaking like a sound effect from a bad Corman film. The four men silently watch it, holding their breath, but nothing else happens.
Dean gives Sam a meaningful 'I'll get back to you, bub,' look, and goes to unpack his weapons duffel . The Talk will have to wait.
“Speaking of the amulet...” Jon waggles his eyebrows hopefully.
“It's out in the car, sealed in a curse box,” Dean tells him.
“What? But - Shouldn't I be wearing it? I mean, c'mon, at least bring it inside - “
“Quitcher baw-win,” Albert says agreeably, “we got a plan,” and Jon shuts up, blushing a bit.
“First off, Jon, Albert, put these in your pockets.” Sam hands them each a small etched coin. “Anti-possession charms. Never leave home without them.”
Albert examines his with a bemused nod of approval. “Never heard of these kinda demons possessing anyone, but no harm in being careful. You carry these too?” he asks, curious.
Sam shakes his head. “We had them tattooed on our chests years ago.”
And there's no fucking way that doesn't sound tough as nails and Chuck-Norris-would-be-jealous-of-this-shit levels of coolness - until that little bitch Jon nods his head and says, “Ah. Matching tattooes. Adorable.”
Sam then holds up his shotgun for them to see. “Shotgun shells filled with iron shot,” he tells them. “Very useful for slowing down a demon even in its incorporeal form. My brother's is loaded with rock salt, which will also put the brakes on a shadow demon.”
“Wait, you're brothers?” Albert says.
“I thought you were partners,” Jon says, confused. “You know, reporters.”
“I thought you were partners, too, but… you know. Partners,” Albert says.
Dean realizes he's doing Sam's ow-I'm-havin'-a-fake-baby bitchface, and rubs his mouth until it's gone. No way he's risking his face getting stuck like that.
“Well, obviously, partners, d'uh, even without the matching tattoos, that's beyond obvious - But now you expect me to believe you're brothers?” Jon says, rolling his eyes, all please don't insult my intelligence, because he's a little bitch.
Sammy is obviously thrown, his eyes blinking rapidly, his mouth hanging open in mid-lecture. “Can we please just... just focus, guys? It's not important, okay? We do this for a living, so … focus.” He takes a deep breath, starts over. “Shotguns. Rock salt. Iron shot. Now we're gonna draw what's called a - “
“Sam.” Dean is frowning. (Although a second ago, he was trying like hell not to laugh at Sam's expression.) “Ix-nay on the alk-tay in front of the emon-day. 'Kay?”
“Oh. Good idea... Um. Okay. Bag of salt for you, Jon. Start with this room, pour a thick line of salt in front of every door, on every windowsill, and don't forget the furnace registers in the floor. We want to seal it up completely. Albert, do you need any help with your preparations?”
“Nah, I'm good.” Albert is already helping Dean shove all the furniture in the room against the walls.
Sam watches Jon for a moment, nods, then rummages in his mur-satchel - oh fine, let's just call it a murse, give Dean a cheap thrill, okay? - for the thick piece of chalk he keeps there, then slings the nearly empty bag - no laptop, those things are too freakin' expensive to replace, thanks very much -- onto his back so it's out of his way when he starts drawing the devil's trap on the wooden floor. Sam's done this so many times that he doesn't need to consult his journal anymore, just makes confident strokes with the chalk, a huge symbol-filled circle with a giant five-point star in the center that stretches six feet across. It takes roughly five minutes.
“You use devil's traps, Albert?” he asks, curious.
“Yeah, but our version has completely different sigils, and it has to be drawn in fresh goat's blood. Which is kinda hard to get hold of unless you plan ahead,” Albert replies, with a sheepish shrug like he's embarassed that he left home without his quart jar of gore. “Sorry, wish I could help you with that.”
“No problem, I've got it covered. Besides, I don't imagine Jon would be real happy with goat's blood all over his floors.”
A door slams somewhere in the house.
“Shit!” Jon jumps, spills his jug of salt. “Sorry. Sorry,” he whispers, going to his knees to clean up the mess.
“Hey.” Sam dips his head, catches Jon's eyes. “It's your house. Not theirs. Remember that, okay?” He sweeps up the spilled salt with his hands.
Jon nods jerkily. “Thanks.”
A
It takes two hours to do the entire house.
Albert had helped them devise the plan of attack, after Sam confessed their lack of experience in dealing with multiple shadow demons. Shadow demons can move fast, and there's no guarantee they'd be able to herd them all politely into one trap without it all turning to shit in the blink of an eye. They don't have the option of using a sprinkler system and holy water, like they had the last time they'd faced such high numbers. Basically, the plan is to place a trap out of sight around every corner and inside every doorway, then flush the demons out of their hiding places, and let them trap themselves, one by one. Sam and Albert can then move in and do the exorcisms at their leisure. (Dean had joked that they should throw down a welcome mat with neon lights that spelled out 'free booze and hookers, c'mon in', but Sam had pointed out that only guarenteed Dean would be trapped in it, which haha, shut up, Sam.
Jon and Albert seal off each room, allowing Sam to move in and place his traps without fear of being attacked. When they leave each room, Sam carefully removes the saltline across the doorway to the corridor.
If something wants to move through this house, it will have to step damn carefully to avoid being snared.
And that something knows it, and is growing angrier by the minute.
Doors continue to slam at odd intervals. The pounding noises - like a sledgehammer on the walls - start halfway through, making it difficult to speak to each other. That seems to be Albert's cue to begin reciting his low-voiced prayers, and his steady mutter is a calming counterpoint to the growing disharmony in the rest of the house.
Jon is never left unattended. Dean keeps his shotgun in his hands at all times, talking calmly to the young man as they move from room to room, from the first floor to the second, asking idle questions about the neighborhood, his college classes, and of course, the Steelers.
He keeps track of Sam, busily chalking devil's traps of varying sizes at the end of each corridor, and Albert, who hovers with a gallon jug of holy water once he's helped Jon salt the windows and doors. It's unnerving, to be standing beside a wall and to feel it shake with the force of an invisible blow damn near under your hand. But nothing stronger than a chilly breeze touches the four men.
“We're losing daylight,” Dean mutters to Sam.
“Attic,” Sam nods. He produces two large metal flashlights, hands one to Jon. "Ready to hit Mount Doom?"
“Aw, man,” Jon whines. “We couldn't do the attic first? We had to wait till it's almost dark?”
A lamp on a nearby hall table erupts in a shower of sparks, falls over, sputters some more, then is quiet.
“Shit, this is gonna suck,” Jon breathes, clutching his flashlight like it's his lost virtue.
“Probably,” Dean smirks, and whacks Jon on the back in a friendly so-you-think-i'm-fucking-my-baby-brother-you-sick-fuck kind of way. Jon staggers, Albert steadies him with a brief grip on his arm, and Jon gives him a sick smile of thanks.
Sam leads the way to the door that hides the attic stairs, shotgun in hand. His murse starts to fall off his arm, so he pauses to sling the strap securely over his head and one shoulder. Then, tucking his hair behind his ears, he looks back, nods at Dean. Ready.
“Remember, you're not allowed to die before I do,” Dean says, only half kidding. “I've seen your version of Heaven, and it's fucking boring.”
“It won't be Heaven unless you're there, man,” Sam shrugs. It's that simple, his face says.
For a long moment, Dean is still. This kid of mine... Then he nods. “Okay then.”
Jon rolls his eyes. “Sure, brothers,” he mutters. “And I'm the next great Stillers quarterback. Ouch!” He rubs the back of his head, stops following Albert up the stairs just long enough to glare at Dean behind him, who blinks innocently (Who, me? Musta been someone else who whapped you upside the head. Heh.) then whips around to glare at the rude bark of laughter from up ahead. “It wasn't that funny,” he grumbles.
Albert interrupts his whispered prayer just long enough to say, “Yeah, genius, that wasn't us laughing,” and keeps climbing without once looking back.
Next: Chapter 6
Master Post
Putting the Fün Back in Dysfünctional
Author: greenthumb421
Artist: annartism
Summary: Laughing used to come easy to the Winchester boys.Sometimes Sam thinks they'll never really laugh again. Sam n' Dean, worn down by Bobby's death, Sam's hallucinations of Lucifer, lack of sleep, and the (temporary) loss of the Impala, decide to take a week or two off from hunting, rest up, and try to have some fun, see if they can remember how to laugh. The old Reilly 'House of Death' case in Pittsburgh, PA, seems like a nice, non-urgent case to chew over while they kick back and catch up on sleep. Unfortunately, the hyena demons infesting the house have other ideas.
Characters: Dean, Sam, Sheriff Jody Mills and OMC's.
Pairings: Gen. No, really! Okay, some if-you-squint slashiness, but no worse than canon.
Disclaimer: No profit, no glory, just borrowing the boys from Kripke and the CW.
Rating: PG-13 for language, violence
Word Count: approx 33,000
Warnings: Spoilers through 7.12 Time After Time. Language. (Seriously, gratuitous overuse of the F-bomb.) Misuse of the Pittsburghese dialect, the Ethiopian Christian Church, italics (and parentheses), Trojan condoms, and stuffed cats (but not together, ewwww). And epically long run-on sentences.
.pdf version, created by annartism (thanks, hon!)
The freakin' awesome artworks by annartism can all be seen here, including some tinted versions not seen with the story. Be sure to look for all the hilarious 'Lord of the Rings' references in the scene she created of Sam sitting on his bed!
Song lyrics taken from Bruno Mars' Grenade.
Many thanks go to my primary beta namichan89 for reading and cheerleading and idea bouncing and for making me laugh. The world would be a better place with more sweet souls like you.
Thanks also to my backup beta vyperdd for her emergency handholding and critical feedback. Also, thank you to paleogymnast, one of the mods of the immensely helpful omgspnbigbang, for taking the time to answer my questions and lend a helping hand. Finally, thank you to slightlysatanic, the other mod of omgspnbigbang, and to wendy and thehighwaywoman, mods of spn_j2_big_bang. Our fandom rocks because of people like you ladies!
Putting the Fün Back in Dysfünctional
Master Post Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6
It's not that easy, of course.
Because Sam is a pissy bitch who will not stop arguing.
Since the hyena-shadow-demon-whatthefuckever has no human host to plunge Ruby's knife into, no heart to shoot with the Colt, their only option is to send it on a one-way trip to Hell. Which means they need a way to immobilize the damn thing long enough to exorcise it.
“Devil's trap to contain it, squirt it with holy water to weaken it, read the exorcism, yadda yadda, no more demon, and it's Miller time. What's the holdup? Let's go.”
“How do we get it into the devil's trap?” Sam asks.
“Lure it in.” Buh? Dean's expression says. It's what they always do.
“With what? It's only interested in killing Reillys. You willing to sit Jon Reilly in the middle of a devil's trap? Wait for the shark to smell the chum, and cross your fingers that we can yank him out the very instant the demon crosses the line?”
“Sounds like a plan. Let's go.”
“It's fucking dangerous, Dean. Have you taken a good look at us lately? Neither one of us is operating at full strength. We'll get him killed.”
Sam is doing that annoying looming thing he does, standing over Dean's chair with his arms spread wide to make himself look even fucking bigger than he is, the fucking sasquatch.
Dean considers kicking Sam's feet out from under him, but instead takes a deep breath, and chants to himself pissy bitch waiver card, pissy bitch waiver card. “I'm listening,” he says, and wonders when his balls were surgically removed, 'cause damn if he doesn't sound like some Dr. Phil wannabe. With way cooler hair, of course.
“This thing is not just a scary shadow on the wall, Dean. It's a free-roaming demon with no corporeal form, and it can move things, and if it can move things, it can sure as shit kill a defenseless human.”
“Salt rounds and iron shot will slow it down. And shadow demons aren't real fond of bright light, am I right? We could work with that.”
“Probably,” Sam says.
“Still, they're demons, right? Which means they can't cross salt lines, and can't escape devil's traps.”
Sam's pacing now, clutching at his (flowing, luxuriant, shampoo-commercial,, running-into-Heathcliff's-arms-on-the-moor, for-god's-sake-get-a-haircut-Sam) hair with one hand while gesturing with the other. “And something else. All those search results I found for hyenas? They all agreed on one thing. Hyenas hunt in packs.”
Oh. That is definitely something new and interesting to ponder.
Dean sighs.
Sam stops pacing, and the tension in the room drops down a notch or ten.
Sam smiles, his crooked apologetic smile that has become so familiar since their lives turned to shit. “I'm not pussying out, man. Honest. But I am scared shitless that I might make a simple mistake that gets you killed. I mean, you're the only reason I still get up in the morning, you know? ... So. We need to know more about what we're up against before we risk going in, guns blazing. Agreed?”
Dean nods. There's an odd lump in his throat. Dunno why.
“Cool. Then I suggest we consult the experts. There's an old Ethiopian Christian church in Pittsburgh's Hill District. What do you bet that one of their members was the genius who crafted this kitab amulet a century ago?”
“Seems likely,” Dean says, reaching for his own laptop. Five minutes later, he points at his screen while Sam leans over the back of his chair. “Okay, here we go. The only people who make kitab amulets are deacons of the E.C. church, some position called a Dabtara. So there's definitely a connection there. What's even more cool is that Dabtaras, when they're not sweeping the church and washing the priest's delicates, also train to perform exorcisms of tabibs. Keep your fingers crossed, Sam. We might still be able to wrap this up tonight.”
Sam is already reaching for his cell, punching in the church's number.
It's bizarre, listening to Sam's half of the conversation with the church's priest.
“Yes, hello, we've got a demon situation and - No, sir, I'm dead serious. Do you have a Dabtara that we could speak with? Ah, glad to hear that.” Big thumbs up in Dean's direction, then he's jotting down the info. “Albert. Smith. Oh, he is? Right now? Yes, sir, if you could, that would be great.” He raises his eyebrows at Dean. “He's asking the Dabtara if he'll come talk to us today... Yes, sir? Oh, we're very sure it's demon-related... Well, uh …. “ He looks at Dean. “We kind of hunt them.” He sits up straight, looking shocked. “I...Yes, sir, we are. Sorry, I'm just surprised that you've heard of our line of work.” They know about hunters, he mouths to Dean, wide-eyed. “So you'll send the Dabtara today? That's great! Oh, can you mention that we have a damaged kitab, and if he could fix or replace it - Yes, sir, thank you.”
He rattles off the motel's address and their room number, thanks the priest again, and hangs up, looking a bit stunned. “Apparently the E.C. Church is the triple-A of demon infestation and amulet repair. He'll be here in less than an hour, or the first exorcism is free.”
“Huh. Guess we better clean up the place.” Dean looks around, really seeing the mess for the first time. “Why is there never a flamethrower around when you need one.”
Sam is packing away the weapons Dean's left scattered like used tissues about the room (“Sam, they already know we're hunters, why bother hiding them?” “Because they might know we're hunters, but they don't have to know we're slobs.”) when he abrubtly says, “Dean. We have to call Jon Reilly. Like, right now."
“Huh?” Dean looks at him, then at the kitab sitting in its curse box. “Oh. We've got his crapped-out protection amulet. And it's been almost a week.” He reaches for his phone. “Hope he's got plenty of salt in the house.”
“Make sure he knows that simply leaving the house won't keep him safe,” Sam says. “The buda's demon will still track him down. At least one of his ancestors died overseas when the kitab amulet's protection was compromised.”
“I knew it,” Jon is saying in Dean's ear a minute later. “An honest-to-pete curse, huh? And this demon-on-a-leash thing is what's making stuff move around in the house?”
“Yeah. Wait, you saying the activity's ramped up since we saw you?”
“Damn right it has. Yesterday, some pictures flew off the wall in the office, and the morning before that, all the cupboards in the kitchen were wide open when I got up. Really freaked me out. And man, you should see what this sick fuck did to that poor stuffed cat in the parlor --”
“We'll bring the new protection amulet to the house before nightfall,” Dean says hastily. “Okay, here's what you do to stay safe until then. First, gather up all the salt you can lay hands on, including any sidewalk salt you might have.” He talks Jon through setting up a Winchester Safe Zone (all rights reserved) in his home, a large circle of salt drawn around a comfy chair, a sixpack of his beer of choice, and the t.v. remote. “Man's gotta have his necessities of life,” he tells Sam, who rolls his eyes, but gets on with tidying up the motel room. "Oh, and we might be bringing an expert with us."
"What kind of expert?"
"Oh, just... You know. An Ethiopian exorcist. Gotta go, bye."
"Wait --"
“I hope he's not too traditional, this Dabtara,” Sam mutters. “The really strict ones insist on a formal greeting, where the lower class person prostrates himself facedown on the floor.“
“Which would definitely be us,” Dean sighs, contemplating a pyramid of beer cans on the nightstand.
They both look at the grungy motel room carpet. No way, no how.
“Can't we just say Hi there, how's it going, Gandalf? Or maybe Go Steelers?”
Princess Pissy Bitch - who's been missing for so many hours that Dean was starting to look for her on milk cartons - makes a brief appearance as Sam says, “Just try to be polite, okay? ... Besides, it's much more likely that he'll do the other greeting.”
“Which is what?”
“You're not going to like this.” Sam manages to look both non-judgemental-of-other-cultures and peevishly amused at the same time. (Sometimes, Sam's expression attempts the facial equivalent of an Olympic ice skater doing a quadruple Salchow. It's kinda hilarious, when he manages to nail the landing. Otherwise, he sprains his face, and walks around looking constipated for a week, which is also amusing.) “It's a solid hour of How are you, Thanks be to God I'm fine, How is your mother, Thanks be to God she's fine, How is your potato crop, Thanks be to God it's fine --”
“Yeah,” Dean sighs. “I should have listened to my guidance counselor in high school. I could be burning someone's fries right now.”
“Dean? What's this?” Sam's holding up a scrap of paper with a phone number and “Dr Peter Holtz, Milwaukee Medical Center” scribbled on it in Dean's handwriting.
Shit. “That, uh. That would be a doctor that Sheriff Mills found for me.”
Sam's eyes flick over his brother's body, doing a quick inventory of injuries, old and new. "Something you're not telling me?" He sounds calm and mildly curious.
Dean knows better. "No, man, I'm fine," he says.
“Oh. Okay.” He huffs out a nervous cough of relief, then - “Oh.” After a moment, Sam nods, stiff-necked, then flashes an embarrassed smile. "Guess that means I'm not okay?"
“Hey, man, whatever you're thinking, just stop right there, all right?” Dean steps forward, grips Sam's shoulder. He takes the paper from Sam's hand, holds it up. “This? This is someone who maybe can help out with your nightmares. That's all it is. It's not me giving up on you, and it's not me saying you're dangerous, or should be locked up, or any bullshit like that. You hearing me, Sammy?” He waits until he gets a shaky nod in reply. “You don't have to check into a hospital, don't have to talk to anybody, don't have to do a fucking thing, if that's what you decide. It's totally your call. This number is for you to hold onto, for you to decide to ever use it or not. Understand?”
Sam blinks hard a few times, then clears his throat. “Okay.” He stares at the paper when Dean pushes it into his hand and steps back. “Some sort of sleep specialist?”
“Yeah. We tried to find someone with hunter connections, but no such luck. Sheriff says he specializes in PTSD patients, mostly homeless war veterans. He's not real picky about health insurance, does a lot of pro bono work.” He doesn't need to clarify why that's good. If Sam needs to see a specialist repeatedly, then they can't use stolen health insurance cards. He'd have to pay actual money, or hope to be taken on as a charity case.
“So, I wouldn't be able to tell him --”
“No. Pretty safe to say that the last five years of your life are off limits.”
“Unless I want to be locked up in a rubber room.” Sam sighs. “I'll keep this.”
“Good.” He swats Sam's chest with the back of his hand. “Cheer up, dude. If anyone gets to check into a cushy mental hospital, it's gonna be me. I've got a head start on the crazy, you know. You've got a lot of catching up to do.”
“Yeah, I know,” Sam agrees, then smiles his twisted smile when Dean glares at him. “Well, c'mon. Your obsession with pie? And the Dr Sexy thing, that can't be healthy. And the sleazy situation with the Mustang - Oh, don't look at me like that, you know she's a total slut.”
“Hey! We're having a brotherly moment here,” Dean growls. “You really want to spoil it with bloodshed?”
Sam shoves the paper in his pocket. “Thanks, man.”
Dean nods, relaxes just a bit.
Albert isn't quite what they were expecting.
When he opens the door to greet him, Dean very nearly hollers over his shoulder, “Honey, did we order a hippie?”
For one thing, Albert isn't so much a mature, dark-skinned Ethiopian shaman as he is a pale-skinned, college-aged skateboarder dude. There are some signs of African bloodlines in his facial features, but that was many generations ago. The long dreadlocks try to give his blond hair a dignified air and nearly succeed, but the Bart Simpson “Eat My Shorts” t-shirt negates that effort in a heartbeat. He wipes his hand on the seat of his cargo pants before holding it out to Dean. “Hey. Albert Smith. Yinz must be dem hunters?”
Dean shakes hands doubtfully. “Dean Winchester.”
“Sam Winchester.” His brother, ever the eager student, grabs the skinny kid's hand like it's a holy relic as soon as he's over the threshold. “How are you, Mr. Smith?”
“Call me Albert. Ah'm good, thanks. Sawry ah'm late n'at,” the kid says.
Dean squints, leaning in. “Say again?”
“How was your drive?” Sam offers.
“So-so. Traffic coming ahter dahntahn was rilly a bitch.”
“Yeah... No, I'm sorry,” Dean says, “you'll have to speak English.”
“Dean.”
“What? How can he help us if --”
“He's speaking Pittsburghese,” Sam hisses. He's jittery and practically wetting his pants with nerves and embarrassment, like they're being granted an audience with the Pope and Dean has just asked if he poops in the woods. No more Mountain Dew for Sammy. “So. How's your family, Albert?”
Dean winces. Kill me now. If Sam makes a move to prostrate himself on the floor, Dean plans on a well-aimed kick to the prostate.
“Doing good, thanks.” He gives Sam a curious look, but instead says to Dean, “Hey, s'okay. It's a Burgh thing. My college friendser alla time jaggin on me baht d'accent. Yinz'll get used to it, won't even notice it after a bit.”
“And how is school going --”
“Hey, Sam? We're not in Ethiopia. If yinz wanna be polite to me, just say Go Stillers, 'kay?”
Sam deflates. “Ohthankgod. All I had left was 'How's your goat?'... What, Dean?”
Dean shuts down his grin, clears his throat. “Nothin'. Nothin' at all, Samwise. Go Steelers!”
“Fuck the Ravens!” their Gandalf replies, and bumps fists with Dean.
And it's true, they do get used to the accent, once they get used to hearing “n'at” (translation: “and that”) added to the end of sentences for no logical reason, and learn that “yinz” means the same as “y'all”. Dean still occasionally has to look to Sam for translations of some of the hairier phrases. When asked what metal he'll use for the amulet's chain, Albert's reply is “Oh arn n'at”. “Oh, iron... and that?” Sam frowns. And when Sam is showing him the Reilly's damaged kitab amulet, Albert's admiring, “Scratch my back widda hacksawr, that's sweet,” leaves Sam shaking his head in bewilderment. “Yeah, I got nothin'.”
“Don't sweat it, man, we'll do fine. Okay, let's get to it,” Albert says, looking around the motel room. “Sam, could yinz redd off that table for me?”
“Redd off … Oh, I know this one!” Sam grins, and hastily clears off the table.
“Thanks. First off, yinz should know, I may be young, but I do have some experience with this sort of thing.” He's placing ceremonial candles around the edges of the small table. “Making kitabs and doing exorcisms n'at. My papaw started teaching me when I was wee little. It's a patriarchal thing, passes down from father to son. And then I did two years of internship in Ethiopia right out of high school - saw some pretty hairy shit there, I can tell ya. Haven't been able to practice any of it since then, though,” he shrugs. “Not much call for kitabs in Pittsburgh these days.”
“What about exorcisms?” Dean asks, wanting to skip to the important shit. The protection amulet was nice to have, if not to look at, but really, once the demon (demons?) was exorcised, there'd be no need for it.
“Oh, yeah, I've done those. I did two during my internship,” he grins. His boyish enthusiasm makes him look like he's still
that teenaged intern.
Sam looks at Dean. Dean looks back, shrugs. They've been averaging one a week this past year.
“Two packs,” Albert clarifies, realizing he might have lost some points with them. “Four demons in one pack, five in the other.”
Dean's eyebrows go up. “By yourself?”
Albert shrugs, nods. “Yeah. That's how it works.”
Dean holds his gaze for a moment, then tips his head at Sam, who smiles. “Think this man needs a beer, don't you, Sam?”
“Yup.”
Albert grins. “I'm not old enough to drink until next fall, thanks, and besides, I'm praying. But I'll take a rain check on that, thanks. So, we make the new kitab now, and then we go see if we can't kick some demon ass, oakel-doakel?”
Dean finds himself grinning right back, liking the kid despite himself. He is content to sit back and let Albert take the wheel. The young Dabtara is the expert with this type of demon, and it doesn't pay to ignore expert advice. (I am scared shitless that I might make a simple mistake that gets you killed. You're the only reason I still get up in the morning, you know?)
Fashioning the kitab takes very little time. Albert lights the candles, then spreads out the tools of his trade, a round swatch of dark leather, compact rolled sheaf of handwritten prayers, bits of herbs and spool of silver thread, all the while muttering quietly to himself. Dean is able to follow it at first -- mostly Christian prayers with some n'at's thrown in to get the Lord's attention -- but after a bit, he realizes that he is no longer hearing Pittsburghese, or even English.
“I think he's speaking Ge'ez, the language of the Ethiopian Christian church,” Sam whispers beside Dean. The young Dabtara has stitched up the new kitab with silver thread, and is attaching its chain. It's a vast improvement over the old amulet. Yeah, this is a much fresher looking petrified burrito. Like maybe a zombie wouldn't vomit if it had to touch it with a ten-foot pole. “Ge'ez is a dead language, used only for rituals and services, just like the Catholic church uses Latin.... Hey, Dean, are you thinking what I'm thinking?”
“That by tomorrow you'll be able to tell drunk lesbians 'bite me' in Ge'ez?” Dean whispers back.
Sam grins. “It's like you know me.”
.
.
.
Jon opens the door looking nervous.
“Why aren't you sitting in a circle of salt?” Dean says instead of hello. He waves Albert ahead of him.
“I was, until the doorbell rang,” Jon says indignantly.
“Oldest trick in the book,” Dean scoffs.
“Hey,” Albert nods, hefting his forty-pound bag of road salt onto a safer perch on his shoulder, as he steps past the young homeowner. “I'm Albert. I'll be your exorcist this evening.”
An appreciative snort of laughter from Dean makes Sam grin.
“Hey,” Jon says faintly. “Look, are you sure this is necessary...”
Dean gives him a sardonic smirk as he goes past with his two bags of salt and duffel bag of weapons.
“Don't be nervous,” Sam says with a reassuring smile. “We're here to help.” He dumps his three bags of salt on the hallway floor with a muffled crash that rattles the windows and sends an expensive looking vase skittering off a table to smash on the floorboards. “Crap. Sorry.”
“Hope your homeowner's policy covers exorcism damages,” Dean says cheerfully as he and Albert lay down their bags with much less dramatic thuds.
Jon looks at the shards of broken porcelain. Then at the three rough-looking men before him. He opens his mouth, obviously about to tell them to get the hell out -
A door slams upstairs.
His polite smile is pinched but steady as he gives them a brief nod. “Welcome to the House of Death.”
“Don't make me kill you,” Dean says out of the corner of his mouth as Sam's hand twitches toward his cellphone.
“So that's what we've got so far,” Sam tells Jon. "We know what it is, and how to get rid of it. We just don't know how it all began."
Albert is looking around the office with great interest, examining items on the bookshelves and tabletops with occasional comments. “Hey, is this a Teenie?” he asks, pointing at a black and white photo on the wall. “Yup,” he answers himself, leaning in to read the typed caption. "Sure is."
“Couple more over here,” Jon offers nervously, and Albert comes over for a look.
"Charles 'Teenie' Harris,” Jon tells the Winchesters. “Famous African-American photographer, spent 40 years documenting African-American life in the Pittsburgh area. The white guy sitting in a restaurant in that one? That's my great-great-grandpa Daniel Reilly.”
Sam and Dean are peering over his shoulder by now. Until Albert stops sightseeing, they've got nothing better to do.
The picture shows a bland white businessman, mid-twenties, seated at a table, holding a foaming mug of beer. The other seats are filled by African-Americans, mostly men, all well-dressed, all relaxed and smiling for the camera. All of the dozens of people in the background are black, as is the pretty waitress posed in the foreground with her hands clasped together. Her belly is noticably swollen with pregnancy. “Waitress Felicia Danberry and customers, The Crawford Grill, 1929,” Sam reads aloud.
The same year as the stock market crash, Dean realizes. The same year the first Reilly died, here in this very room.
“That ain't just some restaurant,” Albert says, looking pleased. “The Grill, now that was the place to be, back then. Big time jazz club, kinda like the Cotton Club in Harlem, you know? They got international names in to play there over the years, Dizzy Gillespie and Sarah Vaughn n'at. The white musicians, they'd play their own gigs on the other side of town, then they'd come over to the Grill to jam with the black musicians. Pretty cool family heirloom,” he tells Jon, who nods, pleased.
“Uh, guys?” Sam is still staring at the photo. “I think I've heard of this waitress.” He looks at Dean. “There was a housemaid named Danberry on the payroll in the household ledger. Her name showed up for the first couple of months of 1929, then nothing more.” He lightly touches the photo's glass. “I think we know why she left. Unmarried black housemaid gets pregnant, she'd be out of a job faster than ....” His voice trails off.
“Problem?” Dean asks, alert for trouble.
“Idea,” Sam answers absently, still staring at the photo. “Well, now we know everything,” he muttered.
Dean gapes at him. “We do?”
“Mmmm. Oh, sorry, I was just thinking - Our boy Daniel doesn't look too happy to be sticking out like a sore thumb, so maybe there's another reason he's there besides Happy Hour. Like maybe,” he nods at the photo, “he followed her.” He lets that sink in for a moment.
“He's the baby daddy?” Dean asks. "Huh. And they couldn't just get married back then.”
“Nope. Inter-racial marriage was actually illegal in most states."
Albert chimes in, "And whooo, the stink his family woulda raised! Am I right?” He looks at Jon, who nods sheepishly. “And it woulda been every bit as bad to her family … Emigrated up from the South, where they were no better than trash under the white men's feet, come here to make a life doing honest work, being members in a real community with real pride... Now, I'm thinking, if our Felicia got pregnant by a white man, her family would be furious at him - “
“And there's the final connection,” Sam says, and smacks Dean on the back. Dean obligingly oof's. “Felicia's family wanted revenge on the man who got their daughter pregnant. They couldn't go directly after him and say, beat the living crap out of him - “
“They'd have been lynched if they laid a finger on him,” Albert shrugs. “So instead, they went looking for a tabib.”
“Wait, hold on,” Dean says. “Daniel wasn't the first victim. It was his father Ethan first, remember? Baby daddy lived another twenty-some years after this picture was taken.”
Albert nods slowly, thinking it over. “I think that the curse was meant to simply wipe out the men of the family, one after another, bing bang boom, but that immediately after Ethan's death, someone recognized what was happening and had my predecessor make the kitab amulet to protect Daniel and the rest of the family.”
“It was Felicia,” Sam says quietly. “Imagine how guilty she must have felt when she realized she was responsible ...” His eyes slide sideways to his brother, then away.
Dammit. Dean knows that look. Do we need to have The Talk again, Sammy? The 'You screwed up, but you did your time, Sam, now get off the Guilt Train' talk? 'Cause I'm more than happy to beat it into your thick skull -
The office door behind Jon slowly swings open, lazy hinges creaking like a sound effect from a bad Corman film. The four men silently watch it, holding their breath, but nothing else happens.
Dean gives Sam a meaningful 'I'll get back to you, bub,' look, and goes to unpack his weapons duffel . The Talk will have to wait.
“Speaking of the amulet...” Jon waggles his eyebrows hopefully.
“It's out in the car, sealed in a curse box,” Dean tells him.
“What? But - Shouldn't I be wearing it? I mean, c'mon, at least bring it inside - “
“Quitcher baw-win,” Albert says agreeably, “we got a plan,” and Jon shuts up, blushing a bit.
“First off, Jon, Albert, put these in your pockets.” Sam hands them each a small etched coin. “Anti-possession charms. Never leave home without them.”
Albert examines his with a bemused nod of approval. “Never heard of these kinda demons possessing anyone, but no harm in being careful. You carry these too?” he asks, curious.
Sam shakes his head. “We had them tattooed on our chests years ago.”
And there's no fucking way that doesn't sound tough as nails and Chuck-Norris-would-be-jealous-of-this-shit levels of coolness - until that little bitch Jon nods his head and says, “Ah. Matching tattooes. Adorable.”
Sam then holds up his shotgun for them to see. “Shotgun shells filled with iron shot,” he tells them. “Very useful for slowing down a demon even in its incorporeal form. My brother's is loaded with rock salt, which will also put the brakes on a shadow demon.”
“Wait, you're brothers?” Albert says.
“I thought you were partners,” Jon says, confused. “You know, reporters.”
“I thought you were partners, too, but… you know. Partners,” Albert says.
Dean realizes he's doing Sam's ow-I'm-havin'-a-fake-baby bitchface, and rubs his mouth until it's gone. No way he's risking his face getting stuck like that.
“Well, obviously, partners, d'uh, even without the matching tattoos, that's beyond obvious - But now you expect me to believe you're brothers?” Jon says, rolling his eyes, all please don't insult my intelligence, because he's a little bitch.
Sammy is obviously thrown, his eyes blinking rapidly, his mouth hanging open in mid-lecture. “Can we please just... just focus, guys? It's not important, okay? We do this for a living, so … focus.” He takes a deep breath, starts over. “Shotguns. Rock salt. Iron shot. Now we're gonna draw what's called a - “
“Sam.” Dean is frowning. (Although a second ago, he was trying like hell not to laugh at Sam's expression.) “Ix-nay on the alk-tay in front of the emon-day. 'Kay?”
“Oh. Good idea... Um. Okay. Bag of salt for you, Jon. Start with this room, pour a thick line of salt in front of every door, on every windowsill, and don't forget the furnace registers in the floor. We want to seal it up completely. Albert, do you need any help with your preparations?”
“Nah, I'm good.” Albert is already helping Dean shove all the furniture in the room against the walls.
Sam watches Jon for a moment, nods, then rummages in his mur-satchel - oh fine, let's just call it a murse, give Dean a cheap thrill, okay? - for the thick piece of chalk he keeps there, then slings the nearly empty bag - no laptop, those things are too freakin' expensive to replace, thanks very much -- onto his back so it's out of his way when he starts drawing the devil's trap on the wooden floor. Sam's done this so many times that he doesn't need to consult his journal anymore, just makes confident strokes with the chalk, a huge symbol-filled circle with a giant five-point star in the center that stretches six feet across. It takes roughly five minutes.
“You use devil's traps, Albert?” he asks, curious.
“Yeah, but our version has completely different sigils, and it has to be drawn in fresh goat's blood. Which is kinda hard to get hold of unless you plan ahead,” Albert replies, with a sheepish shrug like he's embarassed that he left home without his quart jar of gore. “Sorry, wish I could help you with that.”
“No problem, I've got it covered. Besides, I don't imagine Jon would be real happy with goat's blood all over his floors.”
A door slams somewhere in the house.
“Shit!” Jon jumps, spills his jug of salt. “Sorry. Sorry,” he whispers, going to his knees to clean up the mess.
“Hey.” Sam dips his head, catches Jon's eyes. “It's your house. Not theirs. Remember that, okay?” He sweeps up the spilled salt with his hands.
Jon nods jerkily. “Thanks.”
A
It takes two hours to do the entire house.
Albert had helped them devise the plan of attack, after Sam confessed their lack of experience in dealing with multiple shadow demons. Shadow demons can move fast, and there's no guarantee they'd be able to herd them all politely into one trap without it all turning to shit in the blink of an eye. They don't have the option of using a sprinkler system and holy water, like they had the last time they'd faced such high numbers. Basically, the plan is to place a trap out of sight around every corner and inside every doorway, then flush the demons out of their hiding places, and let them trap themselves, one by one. Sam and Albert can then move in and do the exorcisms at their leisure. (Dean had joked that they should throw down a welcome mat with neon lights that spelled out 'free booze and hookers, c'mon in', but Sam had pointed out that only guarenteed Dean would be trapped in it, which haha, shut up, Sam.
Jon and Albert seal off each room, allowing Sam to move in and place his traps without fear of being attacked. When they leave each room, Sam carefully removes the saltline across the doorway to the corridor.
If something wants to move through this house, it will have to step damn carefully to avoid being snared.
And that something knows it, and is growing angrier by the minute.
Doors continue to slam at odd intervals. The pounding noises - like a sledgehammer on the walls - start halfway through, making it difficult to speak to each other. That seems to be Albert's cue to begin reciting his low-voiced prayers, and his steady mutter is a calming counterpoint to the growing disharmony in the rest of the house.
Jon is never left unattended. Dean keeps his shotgun in his hands at all times, talking calmly to the young man as they move from room to room, from the first floor to the second, asking idle questions about the neighborhood, his college classes, and of course, the Steelers.
He keeps track of Sam, busily chalking devil's traps of varying sizes at the end of each corridor, and Albert, who hovers with a gallon jug of holy water once he's helped Jon salt the windows and doors. It's unnerving, to be standing beside a wall and to feel it shake with the force of an invisible blow damn near under your hand. But nothing stronger than a chilly breeze touches the four men.
“We're losing daylight,” Dean mutters to Sam.
“Attic,” Sam nods. He produces two large metal flashlights, hands one to Jon. "Ready to hit Mount Doom?"
“Aw, man,” Jon whines. “We couldn't do the attic first? We had to wait till it's almost dark?”
A lamp on a nearby hall table erupts in a shower of sparks, falls over, sputters some more, then is quiet.
“Shit, this is gonna suck,” Jon breathes, clutching his flashlight like it's his lost virtue.
“Probably,” Dean smirks, and whacks Jon on the back in a friendly so-you-think-i'm-fucking-my-baby-brother-you-sick-fuck kind of way. Jon staggers, Albert steadies him with a brief grip on his arm, and Jon gives him a sick smile of thanks.
Sam leads the way to the door that hides the attic stairs, shotgun in hand. His murse starts to fall off his arm, so he pauses to sling the strap securely over his head and one shoulder. Then, tucking his hair behind his ears, he looks back, nods at Dean. Ready.
“Remember, you're not allowed to die before I do,” Dean says, only half kidding. “I've seen your version of Heaven, and it's fucking boring.”
“It won't be Heaven unless you're there, man,” Sam shrugs. It's that simple, his face says.
For a long moment, Dean is still. This kid of mine... Then he nods. “Okay then.”
Jon rolls his eyes. “Sure, brothers,” he mutters. “And I'm the next great Stillers quarterback. Ouch!” He rubs the back of his head, stops following Albert up the stairs just long enough to glare at Dean behind him, who blinks innocently (Who, me? Musta been someone else who whapped you upside the head. Heh.) then whips around to glare at the rude bark of laughter from up ahead. “It wasn't that funny,” he grumbles.
Albert interrupts his whispered prayer just long enough to say, “Yeah, genius, that wasn't us laughing,” and keeps climbing without once looking back.
Next: Chapter 6
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