fic: Requiem (Supernatural; Sam and Dean; pg)
Requiem
Supernatural; Sam and Dean; pg; spoilers through 4.14; 2,065 words
While hunting a gorgon, Sam and Dean find something else altogether.
Happy birthday, dotfic! ♥ Thanks to luzdeestrellas for looking it over.
(also part of the West Wing title project.)
~*~
Requiem
The park is a small speck of green in the midst of the neighborhood, tucked between bridges and with a stunning view of the Manhattan skyline. Sam stops to stare, even though Dean knows he's seen it before, and Dean nudges him to keep moving, weaving around the people taking pictures and the retired couples out for their daily walk.
Dean hates looking like a tourist.
"I thought it was trolls that lived under bridges," Sam says as they move away from anyone who could hear them. "I'm not sure gorgons do."
Dean waves a hand at the water. "They like reefs and water and stuff. I think. They chained Andromeda to the rocks and Perseus came to rescue her."
Sam stops short and Dean bangs into him and then shoves him a little for good measure. Sam doesn't even stumble. Ginormous fucker. "Please tell me we're not basing this hunt on your vague recollection of Clash of the Titans."
"One, it's not a vague recollection, since it was on TNT a couple of weeks ago, and two, I did some research and stuff. You're not the only one capable of using Google."
"Dean--"
Dean looks out over the water, shielding his eyes from the sunlight reflecting off of it. It's still winter, but it's the kind of bright, cold day made for hunting. "It's called the Hell Gate Bridge for a reason, Sam."
That shuts Sam up. For a few minutes at least. They haven't seen the angels since Anna went supernova, and Sam wants to get back to stopping the apocalypse. Dean doesn't disagree, but he figures any random hunt could turn out to be relevant. It's not like trouble goes out of its way to avoid them. If they're caught up in God's plan, God knows damn well where to find them. And if God is taking is own sweet time about things, well, patience has never been Dean's strong suit. He's done with waiting around for inscrutable orders and following them mindlessly, even if they come from God almighty.
Still, he has no desire to go chasing after the end of the world, or looking for Lilith, and he doesn't think that makes him weak or spineless; he'd say he's being smart and cautious. He knows better than Sam does--than Sam ever will, if he has anything to say about it--what that hell-bitch is capable of.
They follow the promenade to the end, and come to a chain link fence blocking off the area that leads down below the bridge. Dean tosses the duffel over, and then he and Sam scale the fence quickly and easily. The cut on his shoulder is almost healed, but he can feel the scab pull as he climbs. He ignores it.
The ground is wet here, the East River lapping greedily at the shore, and with the stone towers of the bridge blocking out the sun, it's chilly. Dean suppresses a shiver; he isn't afraid of the dark, despite what Sam might think, but he'd prefer not to be running around out here after nightfall if he can help it. Not if there's a crazy lady with snakes for hair who can turn people to stone making this her home base.
He hands Sam a pair of mirrored sunglasses and slips a pair onto his own face.
"Seriously?" Sam says, and Dean doesn't know if it's actually true that gorgons turn you to stone if you look directly at them (until he'd found a couple of articles about missing men and weird rock formations cropping up where there hadn't been any before, he wasn't sure gorgons actually existed), but he thinks the expression on Sam's face might give them a run for their money. He's glad he's got the glasses on to deflect the death rays.
"You got a better idea?"
"Yeah, maybe we should--"
Dean catches a glimpse of something in the shadows beneath the bridge and holds up a fist, the movement sharp and controlled. Sam shuts up immediately. Guns drawn (Dean's got consecrated silver rounds, Sam, consecrated iron), they stalk towards it. There's mist rising from the ground that shouldn't be there, and the low-pitched keen of a woman crying.
Dean looks at Sam, whose eyebrows quirk above his mirrored aviators, and shrugs a shoulder. Sam nods and purses his lips. It could be a trap, or it could be someone who needs help. It could be both.
They light their flashlights and Dean signals Sam, cover me. Sam nods again, back pressed to the damp masonry as Dean swings around the corner and into a dark hollow that shouldn't be there. He plays the beam of his flashlight over the area, the mist still wafting like dry ice fog at a rock concert, and he almost misses her, because her skin and dress are the same wispy gray as the mist. He doesn't see any snakes in her hair, though given the rats' nest it appears to be under her veil, he supposes those could be metaphorical; her wrists are covered in gold bracelets that twist like serpents with winking gems for eyes. The cave smells of old blood and snuffed candles and rank sweat.
"Have you brought a sacrifice?" Her voice is old and whisper thin, but surprisingly musical. Dean can't place her accent.
"Was I supposed to?"
"Those who come to the Pythia generally do," she answers wryly. "Though it's been many years since anyone has."
"The Pythia?" he asks, startled. "Like on Battlestar Galactica?"
"I think she means like the Oracle at Delphi." Sam looms behind him, blocking out what little light gets in from outside. He's not wearing his sunglasses anymore, and Dean figures it's safe to take his off, as well.
"Yes," she says. "Though it's been many years since I last saw Mount Parnassus."
That explains the accent. "You emigrated?" Dean says. Astoria has one of the largest Greek populations in the country, and it wouldn't be the first time immigrants had brought their gods and monsters with them to the new world.
"Though my gods have not been worshipped for ages, their stories are still potent, and carry within them the seeds of belief." She inclines her head gracefully. "When my people came, I traveled with them."
"And this is where they set you up? 'Cause I gotta say, it doesn't look like the bellybutton of the world to me."
"Dean."
Dean rolls his eyes at the familiar exasperation in Sam's voice, and the Pythia laughs, the sound like dry leaves rattling in the wind.
"My time is long past, and my people no longer honor me the way they once did." She shifts slowly to a sitting position, soft creak of joints and bones making Dean wince in sympathy. The filmy veil covering her head falls back, revealing a pale face lined with wrinkles, surrounded by dirty gray hair. Her lips are thin and her eyes dark and sunk deep into their sockets. "I will die here, and my journey will be at an end."
"The least they could do is set you up in a nice hotel, get you room service and cable."
"They have forgotten me." She raises a veiny, spotted hand and gestures at the small space she lives in. Dean catches a glimpse of melted candles, a couple of urns, and a ratty old blanket. There's writing on the walls, and he doesn't know enough Greek to read it. "And I have long since resigned myself to my fate. The thread will be cut soon."
Dean reaches into his pocket, pulls out the extra emergency bag of peanut M&Ms he always carries, and crouches down beside her. "Here," he says. He opens it and pours a few pieces of candy into her trembling hand.
She takes the chocolate, lifts it to her mouth. Her eyes fall closed and she smiles, the wrinkles on her face rearranging themselves. Dean thinks she looks like a cross between a Muppet and the lady from Murder She Wrote. Or maybe a Muppet of the lady from Murder She Wrote.
"Thank you," she says when she's done chewing. She cups his cheek with her gnarled hand, and he can see dirt beneath her ragged fingernails, smell stale sweat and decay on her skin, but he doesn't flinch away. Then she curls her fingers around his forearm, surprisingly strong for an oracle on her last legs, and for a second, Dean worries he's misjudged her, made a mistake. He glances at Sam, whose face is set in determined lines, and whose gun is still in his hand. "Help me to my tripod, young sir," she says, nodding her chin at the weird, three-legged stool shoved into a corner of the grotto. He swings her up into his arms, her body light as the flimsy dress she's wrapped in--the fine linen reminds him of a funeral shroud. He knows he's not wrong.
He sets her down gently on the metal stool and she smiles and holds out her hand for more M&Ms. He obliges.
"Your gods are not my gods," she says. "My gods are long dead, but whispers and hints of the future still swirl in the mist." She straightens her shoulders and raises her chin, and Dean can imagine what she must have looked like when she was young. "You have questions. Ask, and they may be answered."
Sam bows his head as if he's praying, and the Pythia does the same. Dean, never one for prayer or prophecy, keeps his eyes open and watches. Still, he lets the questions form in his mind, and if he wonders about more than the gorgon they're here to hunt, no one will ever know.
When she speaks, her voice is different, as if it's being echoed by many voices. "Your gods are not my gods, Sam Winchester," she says, and both Sam and Dean start at the use of Sam's name, "but your war is my war. You cannot let darkness escape its bounds to cover the earth. You must fight fire with fire."
Her eyes open and she captures Dean's gaze with laser focus, reaches out again to cup his cheek. "You have been touched by your gods, Dean. You have been broken and made whole again to be their instrument, but you are wise to mistrust their regard. Gods are fickle and cruel, and their ends are not always clear to us. But to survive, to win, you must regain your faith."
"I never had any faith to begin with," he says.
"Not in the gods," she says. "Believe, so that he may believe." She gasps and slumps. Dean catches her before she topples off her tripod. Her pulse is thready under his fingertips, and her paper-thin skin is clammy.
"What?" he asks urgently. "Who?"
"You know who," she whispers. Then her body gives one last shudder, and gives out.
He lays her gently on the ground, and looks up at Sam, who looks thoughtful and sad at the same time. "Salt and burn?" he asks.
Dean nods. "You go get the bag. I'll wait here."
Sam disappears back out into the daylight, and Dean stares down at the small thin body of the Pythia. "We won't leave you for the dogs," he says softly, and then, "Thank you."
Her body burns like kindling, and they bury the remains in the dirt of her grotto, digging quietly and methodically. Dean misses the easy banter and bitching they used to do during this part of the job, but he's been missing that for a while now. He's pretty sure Sam's chewing over her words, like they haven't had enough of stupid prophecy and destiny, and he resigns himself to the fact that Sam's going to be broody and emo for the rest of the day.
But he also knows she was right--if he doesn't believe in Sam, there's no way they can win. He just doesn't know where to start.
Sam's phone rings when they're walking back to the car. Dean takes a deep breath, bites his tongue, and keeps going, so he's surprised to hear Sam say, "Okay, Ruby, we'll meet you at the Astoria Diner."
Dean turns to look at Sam, and Sam shrugs a shoulder. "Diner sound good to you, Dean?"
Dean smiles. "Diner sounds fine."
end
~*~
Feedback is adored.
~*~
Supernatural; Sam and Dean; pg; spoilers through 4.14; 2,065 words
While hunting a gorgon, Sam and Dean find something else altogether.
Happy birthday, dotfic! ♥ Thanks to luzdeestrellas for looking it over.
(also part of the West Wing title project.)
~*~
Requiem
The park is a small speck of green in the midst of the neighborhood, tucked between bridges and with a stunning view of the Manhattan skyline. Sam stops to stare, even though Dean knows he's seen it before, and Dean nudges him to keep moving, weaving around the people taking pictures and the retired couples out for their daily walk.
Dean hates looking like a tourist.
"I thought it was trolls that lived under bridges," Sam says as they move away from anyone who could hear them. "I'm not sure gorgons do."
Dean waves a hand at the water. "They like reefs and water and stuff. I think. They chained Andromeda to the rocks and Perseus came to rescue her."
Sam stops short and Dean bangs into him and then shoves him a little for good measure. Sam doesn't even stumble. Ginormous fucker. "Please tell me we're not basing this hunt on your vague recollection of Clash of the Titans."
"One, it's not a vague recollection, since it was on TNT a couple of weeks ago, and two, I did some research and stuff. You're not the only one capable of using Google."
"Dean--"
Dean looks out over the water, shielding his eyes from the sunlight reflecting off of it. It's still winter, but it's the kind of bright, cold day made for hunting. "It's called the Hell Gate Bridge for a reason, Sam."
That shuts Sam up. For a few minutes at least. They haven't seen the angels since Anna went supernova, and Sam wants to get back to stopping the apocalypse. Dean doesn't disagree, but he figures any random hunt could turn out to be relevant. It's not like trouble goes out of its way to avoid them. If they're caught up in God's plan, God knows damn well where to find them. And if God is taking is own sweet time about things, well, patience has never been Dean's strong suit. He's done with waiting around for inscrutable orders and following them mindlessly, even if they come from God almighty.
Still, he has no desire to go chasing after the end of the world, or looking for Lilith, and he doesn't think that makes him weak or spineless; he'd say he's being smart and cautious. He knows better than Sam does--than Sam ever will, if he has anything to say about it--what that hell-bitch is capable of.
They follow the promenade to the end, and come to a chain link fence blocking off the area that leads down below the bridge. Dean tosses the duffel over, and then he and Sam scale the fence quickly and easily. The cut on his shoulder is almost healed, but he can feel the scab pull as he climbs. He ignores it.
The ground is wet here, the East River lapping greedily at the shore, and with the stone towers of the bridge blocking out the sun, it's chilly. Dean suppresses a shiver; he isn't afraid of the dark, despite what Sam might think, but he'd prefer not to be running around out here after nightfall if he can help it. Not if there's a crazy lady with snakes for hair who can turn people to stone making this her home base.
He hands Sam a pair of mirrored sunglasses and slips a pair onto his own face.
"Seriously?" Sam says, and Dean doesn't know if it's actually true that gorgons turn you to stone if you look directly at them (until he'd found a couple of articles about missing men and weird rock formations cropping up where there hadn't been any before, he wasn't sure gorgons actually existed), but he thinks the expression on Sam's face might give them a run for their money. He's glad he's got the glasses on to deflect the death rays.
"You got a better idea?"
"Yeah, maybe we should--"
Dean catches a glimpse of something in the shadows beneath the bridge and holds up a fist, the movement sharp and controlled. Sam shuts up immediately. Guns drawn (Dean's got consecrated silver rounds, Sam, consecrated iron), they stalk towards it. There's mist rising from the ground that shouldn't be there, and the low-pitched keen of a woman crying.
Dean looks at Sam, whose eyebrows quirk above his mirrored aviators, and shrugs a shoulder. Sam nods and purses his lips. It could be a trap, or it could be someone who needs help. It could be both.
They light their flashlights and Dean signals Sam, cover me. Sam nods again, back pressed to the damp masonry as Dean swings around the corner and into a dark hollow that shouldn't be there. He plays the beam of his flashlight over the area, the mist still wafting like dry ice fog at a rock concert, and he almost misses her, because her skin and dress are the same wispy gray as the mist. He doesn't see any snakes in her hair, though given the rats' nest it appears to be under her veil, he supposes those could be metaphorical; her wrists are covered in gold bracelets that twist like serpents with winking gems for eyes. The cave smells of old blood and snuffed candles and rank sweat.
"Have you brought a sacrifice?" Her voice is old and whisper thin, but surprisingly musical. Dean can't place her accent.
"Was I supposed to?"
"Those who come to the Pythia generally do," she answers wryly. "Though it's been many years since anyone has."
"The Pythia?" he asks, startled. "Like on Battlestar Galactica?"
"I think she means like the Oracle at Delphi." Sam looms behind him, blocking out what little light gets in from outside. He's not wearing his sunglasses anymore, and Dean figures it's safe to take his off, as well.
"Yes," she says. "Though it's been many years since I last saw Mount Parnassus."
That explains the accent. "You emigrated?" Dean says. Astoria has one of the largest Greek populations in the country, and it wouldn't be the first time immigrants had brought their gods and monsters with them to the new world.
"Though my gods have not been worshipped for ages, their stories are still potent, and carry within them the seeds of belief." She inclines her head gracefully. "When my people came, I traveled with them."
"And this is where they set you up? 'Cause I gotta say, it doesn't look like the bellybutton of the world to me."
"Dean."
Dean rolls his eyes at the familiar exasperation in Sam's voice, and the Pythia laughs, the sound like dry leaves rattling in the wind.
"My time is long past, and my people no longer honor me the way they once did." She shifts slowly to a sitting position, soft creak of joints and bones making Dean wince in sympathy. The filmy veil covering her head falls back, revealing a pale face lined with wrinkles, surrounded by dirty gray hair. Her lips are thin and her eyes dark and sunk deep into their sockets. "I will die here, and my journey will be at an end."
"The least they could do is set you up in a nice hotel, get you room service and cable."
"They have forgotten me." She raises a veiny, spotted hand and gestures at the small space she lives in. Dean catches a glimpse of melted candles, a couple of urns, and a ratty old blanket. There's writing on the walls, and he doesn't know enough Greek to read it. "And I have long since resigned myself to my fate. The thread will be cut soon."
Dean reaches into his pocket, pulls out the extra emergency bag of peanut M&Ms he always carries, and crouches down beside her. "Here," he says. He opens it and pours a few pieces of candy into her trembling hand.
She takes the chocolate, lifts it to her mouth. Her eyes fall closed and she smiles, the wrinkles on her face rearranging themselves. Dean thinks she looks like a cross between a Muppet and the lady from Murder She Wrote. Or maybe a Muppet of the lady from Murder She Wrote.
"Thank you," she says when she's done chewing. She cups his cheek with her gnarled hand, and he can see dirt beneath her ragged fingernails, smell stale sweat and decay on her skin, but he doesn't flinch away. Then she curls her fingers around his forearm, surprisingly strong for an oracle on her last legs, and for a second, Dean worries he's misjudged her, made a mistake. He glances at Sam, whose face is set in determined lines, and whose gun is still in his hand. "Help me to my tripod, young sir," she says, nodding her chin at the weird, three-legged stool shoved into a corner of the grotto. He swings her up into his arms, her body light as the flimsy dress she's wrapped in--the fine linen reminds him of a funeral shroud. He knows he's not wrong.
He sets her down gently on the metal stool and she smiles and holds out her hand for more M&Ms. He obliges.
"Your gods are not my gods," she says. "My gods are long dead, but whispers and hints of the future still swirl in the mist." She straightens her shoulders and raises her chin, and Dean can imagine what she must have looked like when she was young. "You have questions. Ask, and they may be answered."
Sam bows his head as if he's praying, and the Pythia does the same. Dean, never one for prayer or prophecy, keeps his eyes open and watches. Still, he lets the questions form in his mind, and if he wonders about more than the gorgon they're here to hunt, no one will ever know.
When she speaks, her voice is different, as if it's being echoed by many voices. "Your gods are not my gods, Sam Winchester," she says, and both Sam and Dean start at the use of Sam's name, "but your war is my war. You cannot let darkness escape its bounds to cover the earth. You must fight fire with fire."
Her eyes open and she captures Dean's gaze with laser focus, reaches out again to cup his cheek. "You have been touched by your gods, Dean. You have been broken and made whole again to be their instrument, but you are wise to mistrust their regard. Gods are fickle and cruel, and their ends are not always clear to us. But to survive, to win, you must regain your faith."
"I never had any faith to begin with," he says.
"Not in the gods," she says. "Believe, so that he may believe." She gasps and slumps. Dean catches her before she topples off her tripod. Her pulse is thready under his fingertips, and her paper-thin skin is clammy.
"What?" he asks urgently. "Who?"
"You know who," she whispers. Then her body gives one last shudder, and gives out.
He lays her gently on the ground, and looks up at Sam, who looks thoughtful and sad at the same time. "Salt and burn?" he asks.
Dean nods. "You go get the bag. I'll wait here."
Sam disappears back out into the daylight, and Dean stares down at the small thin body of the Pythia. "We won't leave you for the dogs," he says softly, and then, "Thank you."
Her body burns like kindling, and they bury the remains in the dirt of her grotto, digging quietly and methodically. Dean misses the easy banter and bitching they used to do during this part of the job, but he's been missing that for a while now. He's pretty sure Sam's chewing over her words, like they haven't had enough of stupid prophecy and destiny, and he resigns himself to the fact that Sam's going to be broody and emo for the rest of the day.
But he also knows she was right--if he doesn't believe in Sam, there's no way they can win. He just doesn't know where to start.
Sam's phone rings when they're walking back to the car. Dean takes a deep breath, bites his tongue, and keeps going, so he's surprised to hear Sam say, "Okay, Ruby, we'll meet you at the Astoria Diner."
Dean turns to look at Sam, and Sam shrugs a shoulder. "Diner sound good to you, Dean?"
Dean smiles. "Diner sounds fine."
end
~*~
Feedback is adored.
~*~