[SPN/BoB Big Bang] Free Until They Cut Me Down (3/6)
Dean wasn’t expecting to wake up. That he did so in a hospital bed with a woman’s palm on his brow only compounded his confusion.
“Lie still, for pity’s sake,” said Nurse Morgan, her voice so gentle he nearly didn’t recognize it. The ward was quiet: not even ambient hospital noise reached them. He blinked against the early morning light and peered down at his body.
“Where’s my cast?” he mumbled. He tried to sit up, but Nurse Morgan held his shoulder against his pillow.
“You’ve nothing broken, Private Winchester. In fact, you’re quite mobile, but I’d like to discuss some things with you before you leave.”
He frowned at her. “That’s not possible.” He tried to prop himself up on his elbows. “Where’s Luz? What happened?”
“I sent Sergeant Luz back to barracks,” she said. “Your medic Corporal Roe was more than help enough.” One corner of her mouth curled up. “Quite the exciting night you had.”
Dean eyed her, slowly pushing himself upright. “My ribs were broken, probably punctured a lung,” he said. “My leg-”
“The nixie is dead,” she said. “The knife should be where you left it.” She reached into her pocket and withdrew his amulet, the bronze head dangling on its leather cord. “And while I have your attention, might I ask how you came by this?”
Dean grabbed the necklace. “Give that to me,” he snapped. She let him take it, and watched as he slipped it over his neck and under his shirt.
“It’s not finished,” she said. “Do you know what it signifies?”
He glared as he straightened his collar. “Lady, no offense, but mind your own business.”
Nurse Morgan smiled, unperturbed. “As you will. Though I do hope we’ll have the chance to speak again before you go.” She folded her hands. “By the by, we’ll have no more trouble from the lamia or the black shuck either.”
Dean slid sideways, his legs dangling off the bed. “And what would you know about that?”
“If you have your secrets, Private, then I shall have mine.” She stepped back. “Take care of yourself, now. I will be where you’ll find me.”
Dean didn’t take his eyes off her until she was through the ward doors. His stomach vaguely sour, he ran his hands over his shoulder, chest and ankle: each was whole and unscathed. Even his uniform was clean, if rumpled from a night’s sleep. He didn’t even have a hangover. Unsettled, he reached for his boots and pulled them on, lacing them up over the bottoms of his trousers. No other hospital personnel came for him. He tested his weight on his feet before breaking for the nearest exit as fast as he could.
He reached the scene of the attack before his barracks. The dirt was torn up where it wasn’t sodden; blood marbled the mud where he’d fallen. Dean unclenched his jaw and scanned the ground for the glint of medal. Nurse Morgan hadn’t lied - his silver knife lay close to where the nixie had fallen. He swiped the blade on a patch of weeds and hid it back under his jacket. The sun was climbing higher behind a scrim of cloud cover: he scuffed his boots over the signs of struggle and kicked the mud out of his treads, ready to retreat for a good hour of polishing and hard thinking.
“Private Winchester!”
He turned around, startled. Lieutenant Peacock was striding toward him, his face pinched. Trapped, Dean straightened up and saluted. Peacock, an officer with a fastidious streak, returned the salute and glared up at Dean. “You look quite well, Private.”
He swallowed. “Thank you, sir, I’m feeling well.”
Peacock’s mouth thinned. “Then why is it that I received notice this morning that you were in the hospital with broken bones and internal injuries?” Dean said nothing. Peacock narrowed his eyes. “Obviously Lieutenant Compton would be taking care of this if he wasn’t off in London now, but someone has to maintain order around here. I understand that you were out drinking last night.”
Dean’s hopes for a quiet morning sank. “At the Blue Boar, yes, sir.”
Peacock drew himself up. “Perhaps it seemed like an amusing idea at the time, but there is no room for reporting false injuries in war, Winchester. How you got Medic Roe involved, I don’t know and don’t want to know. He’s normally far more conscientious than this.” He nodded once. “Change your gear. Did you have plans today?”
He held in a sigh. “No, sir.”
“Just as well,” said Peacock. “You’ll be digging trenches until I am satisfied. Report to the latrines in ten minutes.”
Dean watched him march off, head held high. “Son of a bitch,” he grumbled, and hurried to go change.
* * *
Eugene Roe sat crouched near the edge of Dean’s latest ditch, his elbows resting on his knees.
“Don’t know how many more of these we’re gonna need,” he said at last.
Dean stuck the short shovel in a corner. He wiped his face in the crook of his arm, leaving a stain of mud and sweat. “Should I keep going?”
Roe looked away. “Far be it from me to second-guess Lieutenant Peacock. Don’t think he’ll expect you to be done so soon, though.”
Dean sat down on the grass, his boots in the trench, and took out his canteen. “Well, at least I know now why I joined the army.” He held up his water in a toast. “Screw Hitler and screw Pearl Harbor, I came to Europe because Europe needed more holes in it.”
A smile fluttered on Roe’s face, but not for long. He glanced back at the line of short ditches Dean had finished. “Sure made short work of these.”
Dean tipped back his canteen. “Used to dig graves for money.”
Roe squinted. “Yeah, I ain’t surprised.”
Dean paused. “What’s that mean?”
Roe settled onto the ground. “I was wondering if we’d get one of your kind here.”
Dean screwed the cap back on his flask. “My ‘kind’?”
“A hunter.” Roe nodded. “I saw your necklace, and your scars.” He began toying with the edges of his sleeves. “You know something strange is going on here. You’d be a lot more spooked if you hadn’t seen it before.”
Dean canted his head. “I didn’t think you were the type.”
Roe smiled briefly. “I’m not. But my grandmother, she knew them. Know what a traiteur is?”
Dean blinked, surprised. “Cajun healer?”
“That’s right.” His face became serious again. “She was never that quick, though. You were bad off last night. I know what I saw.”
“You think something’s happening at the hospital?” Dean said slowly.
Roe looked down at his hands. “I think I don’t trust that Nurse Morgan. She got a gift, sure, but…” He shook his head. “My grandmother, she used to talk to God. This lady, she wants something.”
“Yeah,” said Dean, reaching for his shovel again. “Though damned if I know what.”
Roe got to his feet. “I’ll keep watching,” he said. Dean nodded, and went back to work.
May 2, 1942
Bloomington, Indiana
“Be polite,” says Dad in the silence after he’s pressed the doorbell. “We want to make a good first impression.”
“I’ll be polite!” says Dean, slouching into his jacket. Sam yawns and sways on his feet. Behind the gauzy curtains and stained glass window, the large Victorian house is quiet.
Sam rubs one eye with a knuckle. “Are we gonna spend all day here?”
“We have to see.” Dad peers into a window. “Depends if she’ll help. Dean, give it another ring.”
He steps forward, ready to press the bell, when the unmistakable sound of high heels comes strolling toward them.
When the owner of the house opens the front door, Dean thinks his eyes might fall right out of his head. If Yvonne de Carlo looks this good up close, no wonder the troops crowd to see her. She wears pearls with a polka dot halter dress, and Dean can’t choose between fixating on the hint of cleavage or the stretch of collarbone. She grins at them all, radiant without makeup. “The Winchesters, isn’t it? John, Dean and Sam. Bobby sent me a telegram to warn me.”
Dad restrains himself admirably, but Dean can tell he’s wrestling with some unholy thoughts himself. “Mrs. Barnes?”
She laughs. “Miss, and please, call me Pam.” She holds out her hand, and Dad shakes it, somewhat awkwardly. She steps aside, propping open the door. “Come on in. How do you feel about breakfast?” Her eyes fall on Sam. “I bet you’re hungry for something good,” she says, the curl of her lips a touch mischievous. “It’s your birthday, right?”
“Yeah,” he says, totally awake.
She wags her eyebrows. “Well, they may be rationing everything from here to Kingdom Come, but I think I can scrape together the sugar for a cake. What do you think, is thirteen too old for a sweet tooth?”
“Definitely not,” says Sam, and Dean has to give the kid credit, because he is totally milking that undersized, wide-eyed and hungry for feminine attention look.
Pam gives Dean a pinup girl glance over her shoulder. “Hey there, big guy, you want to help me with something?” That’s how he finds himself standing in a kitchen wooden spoon in hand, mixing batter. The smell of all that butter and sugar is heady under his nose. Pam leans against her counter, cigarette in hand, by turns arguing with Dad about his hunt and instructing Dean in the fine art of baking. Sam is staring at a huge framed photograph in the sitting room; it shows a woman playing an electric guitar and singing. She’s wearing a vibrant floral dress. Pam turns to him mid-sentence. “You like that, sweetie?”
He twists to look at her. “Who is it?”
Pam’s pearly whites are picture perfect. “That’s Sister Rosetta Tharpe, the guitar-playing gospel queen. I took a train up to Chicago once to see her live. It was a hell of a show.”
Dean crooks an eyebrow as he stirs the batter. “You like gospel music?”
She looks him right in the eye. “I like all sorts of music, and you’re free to check out my record collection, mister. You might learn something.”
“This poltergeist-” prompts Dad.
“It’s not a poltergeist,” she says easily, crossing her arms. “I’ve been over there a dozen times. The signature’s different. Not a demon either. I’m happy to take you over there. You can even drop the boys off downtown for a movie.” She turns again to Sam and Dean. “What do you say, guys? There’s a great double feature, Rings On Her Fingers and Captains of the Clouds. I’ve seen ‘em both already, they’re top shows.”
“If we’re investigating this house, I want Dean with me,” says Dad.
“Then we won’t go tonight,” says Pam. “It’s not going anywhere, why should we?” She winks at Sam. “Besides, cake doesn’t go so well with hunting.”
Dad’s mouth thins, but he doesn’t say anything, which is its own stunner. Sam doesn’t seem to have quite caught on to teenagehood quite yet, because he’s this close to making an “I’m a real boy now” face at Pam. Dean won’t pretend he’s not relieved; the hinky stuff can wait, so long as someone has offered to let him investigate her vinyl.
* * *
Somehow Pam ends up next to Dean as they head back to the car. He catches her smiling at him, and he can’t help but smile back. “What?”
“I saw that,” she says, eyes gleaming. “During the newsreel.”
His smile becomes puzzled. “What, that Japan has taken over Burma? A ‘military catastrophe,’ I know I was on the edge of my seat.”
“Mm.” She loops her arm through his elbow. “I may be psychic, but I’m also not an idiot. You want to join up.”
“What? No.” He laughs. “I mean, I can’t, I’m too young. And Dad needs me here. Someone has to look out for Sam.”
“Sam’s got a mind of his own, you know. He can take your dad. Bet he will someday too.” She gives his arm a squeeze. “I think you should do it. Not least because you’d look awfully fetching in uniform.”
Dean swallows and looks at his feet. “That’s not a reason.”
“No.” She turns serious. “But you should do what you think is right, Dean. Training like you’ve had already? Uncle Sam could use your help.”
He snorts. “What, are you selling war bonds or something?”
Pam chuckles, low in her throat. “I could, couldn’t I? Maybe I should think about it: we’re going to be in this thing a while.” She looks ahead at the line of Dad’s shoulders, at Sam recounting his favorite scenes in animated detail to him. “Everybody’s in on this. Just because you’re a hunter doesn’t make you any less of a citizen. And if you can help end this thing even one day sooner, think of how many lives you’d save then.”
Dean furrows his brow. “You really are selling war bonds, aren’t you.”
Pam meets his eye, her expression fierce. “I know there’s shit going down on the home front. There always has been, always will be. Don’t let that tie you down. Maybe it’s not my place to say anything. I know this is your family business, but you’re almost an adult, and you should make your own decisions.”
He avoids looking at her. “What if my decision’s to stay stateside and fight?”
She nods. “Then that’s your decision. You made it. You own it. But don’t pretend you don’t have options. You make any option you want.”
Dean stares at her for a moment. “I’ve never met a woman who talks like you.”
Pam gives him a crooked smile. “You just need to meet more people, dollface.”
July 30, 1944
Aldbourne, England
Weekend furloughs had all but emptied the base. Sunday breakfast at the mess was subdued compared to the usual.
“Giddy! Hey, Giddy!” George Luz settled back in his seat. “Okay then, never mind.” He caught sight of Dean, one cheek packed with scrambled egg, watching him from a few tables over. Luz’s expression became vaguely nervous. He promptly turned to Skip Muck and struck up a conversation.
Without warning, Giddy Orland dropped into the seat next to Dean. “You’re okay,” he said, astonished.
Dean tried not to choke on his breakfast. “Thanks for noticing. Yes I am.” He checked for eavesdroppers. Most of the men ignored him, but he picked out Skinny Sisk and Chuck Grant watching. He finished swallowing. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Giddy hunched forward, eyes downcast. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have gotten you involved.”
Dean set down his fork and lowered his voice. “You think you had something to do with my weekend?”
“Yeah. I got stupid. Too late now, though, right?” Giddy started worrying at his cuticles, but gave up to press his fist on the table. “Look, you need to come with me. I need to show you something.”
Dean held up his palms. “Okay, honestly, you seem like a nice guy, but a word of advice: a straight-up reply won’t kill you, I promise.”
For a moment something sardonic lined Giddy’s face. “I like that, that’s funny.” He stood up again. “How about this: you come with me and I can show you why Easy guys are getting hurt around here.”
Dean pushed his tray back. “Now you’re talking.” Without pause Giddy stood up and headed out of the mess hall. Dean blinked and hurried after him. He caught up with him in the lane leading out of town. “That was a little less explanation than I was hoping for,” he began, jogging up to his side.
Giddy looked at him. “How’d you get better so fast?”
A muscle in Dean’s side twinged. “Better from what?”
Giddy’s face became pinched. “I saw the water-horse.”
The lane was quiet. Dean stared; Giddy averted his eyes “You’re really not a hunter?” Dean asked, before he shook his head and looked away. “Well, thanks for the help, anyway.”
Giddy turned to Dean, his expression pained. “I wasn’t close. I’d have stopped it if I could have.”
A raven cawed and flapped lazily overhead. Dean craned his neck. “You going to tell me anything,” he said warily, “or do I get to walk into this blind and improvise?”
Giddy squinted down the road. “I’ll keep you safe. This isn’t a trap or anything.”
Dean stopped and took him by the arm. “Okay, pal, enough is enough.” He planted his feet. “Giddy, you want me to come and help you, I’m gonna need more than that.”
Giddy turned to him, suddenly clear-eyed. “Dean - it’s Dean, right? You’re Easy. There’s nothing more I can give you. What else do you need?” He pulled his arm away. “Tomorrow, next week, next month, we’ll be asked to climb into airplanes and jump behind enemy lines. And we’re going to do it, and we’re going to keep each other alive out there. That doesn’t start when your parachute deploys. So, will you trust me?”
Dean studied his face. Giddy was still scared, but also resolute. After a moment, Dean nodded. Giddy smiled and laid his hand on Dean’s back, just briefly. “Great. Follow me.”
* * *
Dean stared. “You’re hiding me in a horse stall? This really isn’t a prank?”
“You holding out for a broom closet?” Giddy shoved him. “Get in!” Dean stumbled into a limp pile of old hay as the door shut behind him. “And stay quiet, he’ll be here any minute.”
“Who will? Hey!” Giddy didn’t answer him. “I am such a sucker,” Dean muttered, hunkering down against the warped gray wood. He settled in front of a peephole and took in the view. Giddy paced slowly up and down the center aisle, mumbling to himself. The air inside the stable was still and hot. Dean settled back on his heels, wondering how long he’d be waiting for the show to start.
The far door swung open. Giddy stopped muttering and faced his visitor. Dean could make out a hand on a cane. Medals jangled as the man approached. “Master Smith,” said Giddy, his tone cautious.
“Gideon Gallows-gift.” Willand sounded pleased. “How fine to hear you speak with such respect. And how are you faring this summer’s day?”
“Enough bullshit,” said Giddy. “This needs to end.” Something in the ambient light flickered. Willand began to chuckle.
“And so it could, with one little promise.”
“Stop asking me that.” Giddy’s voice crackled. “Please. What is all this for?”
Willand thumped his cane on the ground. “You tell me, my boy. Is it cowardice? Idleness? Perverse delight in the withholding?”
“You have no reason to keep hurting my friends,” Giddy insisted.
“Do I not?” Willand stepped close to Giddy; Dean had to strain for the words. “You were forged to beat back the German monstrosity, and you arrived on our shores the greatest weapon created in an age. And yet when I came to you and welcomed you with gifts, you turned me back and refused your new nature. Is that not an insult to me and the land which made you?”
“You gave me crows,” began Giddy. “And jewelry.”
Willand huffed. “I gave you ravens, gallows-gift, and you have used them, like it or no. If not for them, your companions Sisk and Liebgott surely would be dead. You called them to your service, and they served.” He savored his pause. “How is Private Sisk, incidentally? And Sergeant Grant? Or…” Dean saw him spread his hands. “Private Winchester?”
“They’re no part of this,” said Giddy. “They’re no part of anything.”
“They’re part of you,” interrupted Willand. “As are all those others. The fiercest furnace could not break such a thing. I cannot touch you, rune-reader, but you may still feel me. Perhaps I simply have not been aggressive enough. Perhaps you do not wish enough for me to stop.”
“You’re sick,” said Giddy.
“I am quite well,” said Willand, cheery as ever. “And so is Captain Winters, I believe. I hope the man takes good care of himself.”
Dean could see every line in Giddy’s body go rigid. Willand also perked up, more alert. “You faltered,“ he said softly. “You are hiding something. I did not see that until now.”
“There’s nothing to see,” said Giddy, ignoring Dean’s stall. “I haven’t lied to you.”
Willand laughed. “You are beginning to use it, even now, even as you curse and fear it. I will not keep you when there is so much to do.” All his medals clinked as he bowed from the waist. “Good day to you, Corporal Orland.”
Once Willand was gone, Dean fell back against the stall and sucked in air after so much shallow breathing. Giddy opened the door, which creaked on its hinges. “Jesus Christ,” he said, before Dean could speak. “He’s going after Captain Winters.”
“What was all that?” Dean pushed himself to his feet. “Giddy, I can’t help you if you don’t tell me anything.”
Giddy’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “He found me right after we got back from Normandy. Sometimes I dream about him.”
“Why’d he call you ‘gallows-gift’?” Dean brushed hay off his leg. “And what was that about ravens?”
Giddy raked his fingers through his hair. “No, that’s - we need to find Winters. We need to make sure he’s safe. I can never get there in time.”
“Whoa.” Dean grabbed his sleeve. “Who is that guy? Do you know what he can do?”
“You saw the nixie.” Giddy pulled away toward the stable door. “He called the lamia and the black dog. I don’t want to see what he’s saving for Winters.”
“Willand,” Dean muttered as he followed him out. “You called him Smith… Hang on.” He took Giddy’s elbow. “Is this seriously who I think it is?” Giddy tried pushed past him, but Dean blocked his way. “No. There are better ways to do this, and I’m not going up against something like that barely armed. We need help.”
Giddy choked out a laugh. “Right. Who could help us?”
Dean set his jaw. “I might have an idea.”
part four
“Lie still, for pity’s sake,” said Nurse Morgan, her voice so gentle he nearly didn’t recognize it. The ward was quiet: not even ambient hospital noise reached them. He blinked against the early morning light and peered down at his body.
“Where’s my cast?” he mumbled. He tried to sit up, but Nurse Morgan held his shoulder against his pillow.
“You’ve nothing broken, Private Winchester. In fact, you’re quite mobile, but I’d like to discuss some things with you before you leave.”
He frowned at her. “That’s not possible.” He tried to prop himself up on his elbows. “Where’s Luz? What happened?”
“I sent Sergeant Luz back to barracks,” she said. “Your medic Corporal Roe was more than help enough.” One corner of her mouth curled up. “Quite the exciting night you had.”
Dean eyed her, slowly pushing himself upright. “My ribs were broken, probably punctured a lung,” he said. “My leg-”
“The nixie is dead,” she said. “The knife should be where you left it.” She reached into her pocket and withdrew his amulet, the bronze head dangling on its leather cord. “And while I have your attention, might I ask how you came by this?”
Dean grabbed the necklace. “Give that to me,” he snapped. She let him take it, and watched as he slipped it over his neck and under his shirt.
“It’s not finished,” she said. “Do you know what it signifies?”
He glared as he straightened his collar. “Lady, no offense, but mind your own business.”
Nurse Morgan smiled, unperturbed. “As you will. Though I do hope we’ll have the chance to speak again before you go.” She folded her hands. “By the by, we’ll have no more trouble from the lamia or the black shuck either.”
Dean slid sideways, his legs dangling off the bed. “And what would you know about that?”
“If you have your secrets, Private, then I shall have mine.” She stepped back. “Take care of yourself, now. I will be where you’ll find me.”
Dean didn’t take his eyes off her until she was through the ward doors. His stomach vaguely sour, he ran his hands over his shoulder, chest and ankle: each was whole and unscathed. Even his uniform was clean, if rumpled from a night’s sleep. He didn’t even have a hangover. Unsettled, he reached for his boots and pulled them on, lacing them up over the bottoms of his trousers. No other hospital personnel came for him. He tested his weight on his feet before breaking for the nearest exit as fast as he could.
He reached the scene of the attack before his barracks. The dirt was torn up where it wasn’t sodden; blood marbled the mud where he’d fallen. Dean unclenched his jaw and scanned the ground for the glint of medal. Nurse Morgan hadn’t lied - his silver knife lay close to where the nixie had fallen. He swiped the blade on a patch of weeds and hid it back under his jacket. The sun was climbing higher behind a scrim of cloud cover: he scuffed his boots over the signs of struggle and kicked the mud out of his treads, ready to retreat for a good hour of polishing and hard thinking.
“Private Winchester!”
He turned around, startled. Lieutenant Peacock was striding toward him, his face pinched. Trapped, Dean straightened up and saluted. Peacock, an officer with a fastidious streak, returned the salute and glared up at Dean. “You look quite well, Private.”
He swallowed. “Thank you, sir, I’m feeling well.”
Peacock’s mouth thinned. “Then why is it that I received notice this morning that you were in the hospital with broken bones and internal injuries?” Dean said nothing. Peacock narrowed his eyes. “Obviously Lieutenant Compton would be taking care of this if he wasn’t off in London now, but someone has to maintain order around here. I understand that you were out drinking last night.”
Dean’s hopes for a quiet morning sank. “At the Blue Boar, yes, sir.”
Peacock drew himself up. “Perhaps it seemed like an amusing idea at the time, but there is no room for reporting false injuries in war, Winchester. How you got Medic Roe involved, I don’t know and don’t want to know. He’s normally far more conscientious than this.” He nodded once. “Change your gear. Did you have plans today?”
He held in a sigh. “No, sir.”
“Just as well,” said Peacock. “You’ll be digging trenches until I am satisfied. Report to the latrines in ten minutes.”
Dean watched him march off, head held high. “Son of a bitch,” he grumbled, and hurried to go change.
* * *
Eugene Roe sat crouched near the edge of Dean’s latest ditch, his elbows resting on his knees.
“Don’t know how many more of these we’re gonna need,” he said at last.
Dean stuck the short shovel in a corner. He wiped his face in the crook of his arm, leaving a stain of mud and sweat. “Should I keep going?”
Roe looked away. “Far be it from me to second-guess Lieutenant Peacock. Don’t think he’ll expect you to be done so soon, though.”
Dean sat down on the grass, his boots in the trench, and took out his canteen. “Well, at least I know now why I joined the army.” He held up his water in a toast. “Screw Hitler and screw Pearl Harbor, I came to Europe because Europe needed more holes in it.”
A smile fluttered on Roe’s face, but not for long. He glanced back at the line of short ditches Dean had finished. “Sure made short work of these.”
Dean tipped back his canteen. “Used to dig graves for money.”
Roe squinted. “Yeah, I ain’t surprised.”
Dean paused. “What’s that mean?”
Roe settled onto the ground. “I was wondering if we’d get one of your kind here.”
Dean screwed the cap back on his flask. “My ‘kind’?”
“A hunter.” Roe nodded. “I saw your necklace, and your scars.” He began toying with the edges of his sleeves. “You know something strange is going on here. You’d be a lot more spooked if you hadn’t seen it before.”
Dean canted his head. “I didn’t think you were the type.”
Roe smiled briefly. “I’m not. But my grandmother, she knew them. Know what a traiteur is?”
Dean blinked, surprised. “Cajun healer?”
“That’s right.” His face became serious again. “She was never that quick, though. You were bad off last night. I know what I saw.”
“You think something’s happening at the hospital?” Dean said slowly.
Roe looked down at his hands. “I think I don’t trust that Nurse Morgan. She got a gift, sure, but…” He shook his head. “My grandmother, she used to talk to God. This lady, she wants something.”
“Yeah,” said Dean, reaching for his shovel again. “Though damned if I know what.”
Roe got to his feet. “I’ll keep watching,” he said. Dean nodded, and went back to work.
May 2, 1942
Bloomington, Indiana
“Be polite,” says Dad in the silence after he’s pressed the doorbell. “We want to make a good first impression.”
“I’ll be polite!” says Dean, slouching into his jacket. Sam yawns and sways on his feet. Behind the gauzy curtains and stained glass window, the large Victorian house is quiet.
Sam rubs one eye with a knuckle. “Are we gonna spend all day here?”
“We have to see.” Dad peers into a window. “Depends if she’ll help. Dean, give it another ring.”
He steps forward, ready to press the bell, when the unmistakable sound of high heels comes strolling toward them.
When the owner of the house opens the front door, Dean thinks his eyes might fall right out of his head. If Yvonne de Carlo looks this good up close, no wonder the troops crowd to see her. She wears pearls with a polka dot halter dress, and Dean can’t choose between fixating on the hint of cleavage or the stretch of collarbone. She grins at them all, radiant without makeup. “The Winchesters, isn’t it? John, Dean and Sam. Bobby sent me a telegram to warn me.”
Dad restrains himself admirably, but Dean can tell he’s wrestling with some unholy thoughts himself. “Mrs. Barnes?”
She laughs. “Miss, and please, call me Pam.” She holds out her hand, and Dad shakes it, somewhat awkwardly. She steps aside, propping open the door. “Come on in. How do you feel about breakfast?” Her eyes fall on Sam. “I bet you’re hungry for something good,” she says, the curl of her lips a touch mischievous. “It’s your birthday, right?”
“Yeah,” he says, totally awake.
She wags her eyebrows. “Well, they may be rationing everything from here to Kingdom Come, but I think I can scrape together the sugar for a cake. What do you think, is thirteen too old for a sweet tooth?”
“Definitely not,” says Sam, and Dean has to give the kid credit, because he is totally milking that undersized, wide-eyed and hungry for feminine attention look.
Pam gives Dean a pinup girl glance over her shoulder. “Hey there, big guy, you want to help me with something?” That’s how he finds himself standing in a kitchen wooden spoon in hand, mixing batter. The smell of all that butter and sugar is heady under his nose. Pam leans against her counter, cigarette in hand, by turns arguing with Dad about his hunt and instructing Dean in the fine art of baking. Sam is staring at a huge framed photograph in the sitting room; it shows a woman playing an electric guitar and singing. She’s wearing a vibrant floral dress. Pam turns to him mid-sentence. “You like that, sweetie?”
He twists to look at her. “Who is it?”
Pam’s pearly whites are picture perfect. “That’s Sister Rosetta Tharpe, the guitar-playing gospel queen. I took a train up to Chicago once to see her live. It was a hell of a show.”
Dean crooks an eyebrow as he stirs the batter. “You like gospel music?”
She looks him right in the eye. “I like all sorts of music, and you’re free to check out my record collection, mister. You might learn something.”
“This poltergeist-” prompts Dad.
“It’s not a poltergeist,” she says easily, crossing her arms. “I’ve been over there a dozen times. The signature’s different. Not a demon either. I’m happy to take you over there. You can even drop the boys off downtown for a movie.” She turns again to Sam and Dean. “What do you say, guys? There’s a great double feature, Rings On Her Fingers and Captains of the Clouds. I’ve seen ‘em both already, they’re top shows.”
“If we’re investigating this house, I want Dean with me,” says Dad.
“Then we won’t go tonight,” says Pam. “It’s not going anywhere, why should we?” She winks at Sam. “Besides, cake doesn’t go so well with hunting.”
Dad’s mouth thins, but he doesn’t say anything, which is its own stunner. Sam doesn’t seem to have quite caught on to teenagehood quite yet, because he’s this close to making an “I’m a real boy now” face at Pam. Dean won’t pretend he’s not relieved; the hinky stuff can wait, so long as someone has offered to let him investigate her vinyl.
* * *
Somehow Pam ends up next to Dean as they head back to the car. He catches her smiling at him, and he can’t help but smile back. “What?”
“I saw that,” she says, eyes gleaming. “During the newsreel.”
His smile becomes puzzled. “What, that Japan has taken over Burma? A ‘military catastrophe,’ I know I was on the edge of my seat.”
“Mm.” She loops her arm through his elbow. “I may be psychic, but I’m also not an idiot. You want to join up.”
“What? No.” He laughs. “I mean, I can’t, I’m too young. And Dad needs me here. Someone has to look out for Sam.”
“Sam’s got a mind of his own, you know. He can take your dad. Bet he will someday too.” She gives his arm a squeeze. “I think you should do it. Not least because you’d look awfully fetching in uniform.”
Dean swallows and looks at his feet. “That’s not a reason.”
“No.” She turns serious. “But you should do what you think is right, Dean. Training like you’ve had already? Uncle Sam could use your help.”
He snorts. “What, are you selling war bonds or something?”
Pam chuckles, low in her throat. “I could, couldn’t I? Maybe I should think about it: we’re going to be in this thing a while.” She looks ahead at the line of Dad’s shoulders, at Sam recounting his favorite scenes in animated detail to him. “Everybody’s in on this. Just because you’re a hunter doesn’t make you any less of a citizen. And if you can help end this thing even one day sooner, think of how many lives you’d save then.”
Dean furrows his brow. “You really are selling war bonds, aren’t you.”
Pam meets his eye, her expression fierce. “I know there’s shit going down on the home front. There always has been, always will be. Don’t let that tie you down. Maybe it’s not my place to say anything. I know this is your family business, but you’re almost an adult, and you should make your own decisions.”
He avoids looking at her. “What if my decision’s to stay stateside and fight?”
She nods. “Then that’s your decision. You made it. You own it. But don’t pretend you don’t have options. You make any option you want.”
Dean stares at her for a moment. “I’ve never met a woman who talks like you.”
Pam gives him a crooked smile. “You just need to meet more people, dollface.”
July 30, 1944
Aldbourne, England
Weekend furloughs had all but emptied the base. Sunday breakfast at the mess was subdued compared to the usual.
“Giddy! Hey, Giddy!” George Luz settled back in his seat. “Okay then, never mind.” He caught sight of Dean, one cheek packed with scrambled egg, watching him from a few tables over. Luz’s expression became vaguely nervous. He promptly turned to Skip Muck and struck up a conversation.
Without warning, Giddy Orland dropped into the seat next to Dean. “You’re okay,” he said, astonished.
Dean tried not to choke on his breakfast. “Thanks for noticing. Yes I am.” He checked for eavesdroppers. Most of the men ignored him, but he picked out Skinny Sisk and Chuck Grant watching. He finished swallowing. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Giddy hunched forward, eyes downcast. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have gotten you involved.”
Dean set down his fork and lowered his voice. “You think you had something to do with my weekend?”
“Yeah. I got stupid. Too late now, though, right?” Giddy started worrying at his cuticles, but gave up to press his fist on the table. “Look, you need to come with me. I need to show you something.”
Dean held up his palms. “Okay, honestly, you seem like a nice guy, but a word of advice: a straight-up reply won’t kill you, I promise.”
For a moment something sardonic lined Giddy’s face. “I like that, that’s funny.” He stood up again. “How about this: you come with me and I can show you why Easy guys are getting hurt around here.”
Dean pushed his tray back. “Now you’re talking.” Without pause Giddy stood up and headed out of the mess hall. Dean blinked and hurried after him. He caught up with him in the lane leading out of town. “That was a little less explanation than I was hoping for,” he began, jogging up to his side.
Giddy looked at him. “How’d you get better so fast?”
A muscle in Dean’s side twinged. “Better from what?”
Giddy’s face became pinched. “I saw the water-horse.”
The lane was quiet. Dean stared; Giddy averted his eyes “You’re really not a hunter?” Dean asked, before he shook his head and looked away. “Well, thanks for the help, anyway.”
Giddy turned to Dean, his expression pained. “I wasn’t close. I’d have stopped it if I could have.”
A raven cawed and flapped lazily overhead. Dean craned his neck. “You going to tell me anything,” he said warily, “or do I get to walk into this blind and improvise?”
Giddy squinted down the road. “I’ll keep you safe. This isn’t a trap or anything.”
Dean stopped and took him by the arm. “Okay, pal, enough is enough.” He planted his feet. “Giddy, you want me to come and help you, I’m gonna need more than that.”
Giddy turned to him, suddenly clear-eyed. “Dean - it’s Dean, right? You’re Easy. There’s nothing more I can give you. What else do you need?” He pulled his arm away. “Tomorrow, next week, next month, we’ll be asked to climb into airplanes and jump behind enemy lines. And we’re going to do it, and we’re going to keep each other alive out there. That doesn’t start when your parachute deploys. So, will you trust me?”
Dean studied his face. Giddy was still scared, but also resolute. After a moment, Dean nodded. Giddy smiled and laid his hand on Dean’s back, just briefly. “Great. Follow me.”
* * *
Dean stared. “You’re hiding me in a horse stall? This really isn’t a prank?”
“You holding out for a broom closet?” Giddy shoved him. “Get in!” Dean stumbled into a limp pile of old hay as the door shut behind him. “And stay quiet, he’ll be here any minute.”
“Who will? Hey!” Giddy didn’t answer him. “I am such a sucker,” Dean muttered, hunkering down against the warped gray wood. He settled in front of a peephole and took in the view. Giddy paced slowly up and down the center aisle, mumbling to himself. The air inside the stable was still and hot. Dean settled back on his heels, wondering how long he’d be waiting for the show to start.
The far door swung open. Giddy stopped muttering and faced his visitor. Dean could make out a hand on a cane. Medals jangled as the man approached. “Master Smith,” said Giddy, his tone cautious.
“Gideon Gallows-gift.” Willand sounded pleased. “How fine to hear you speak with such respect. And how are you faring this summer’s day?”
“Enough bullshit,” said Giddy. “This needs to end.” Something in the ambient light flickered. Willand began to chuckle.
“And so it could, with one little promise.”
“Stop asking me that.” Giddy’s voice crackled. “Please. What is all this for?”
Willand thumped his cane on the ground. “You tell me, my boy. Is it cowardice? Idleness? Perverse delight in the withholding?”
“You have no reason to keep hurting my friends,” Giddy insisted.
“Do I not?” Willand stepped close to Giddy; Dean had to strain for the words. “You were forged to beat back the German monstrosity, and you arrived on our shores the greatest weapon created in an age. And yet when I came to you and welcomed you with gifts, you turned me back and refused your new nature. Is that not an insult to me and the land which made you?”
“You gave me crows,” began Giddy. “And jewelry.”
Willand huffed. “I gave you ravens, gallows-gift, and you have used them, like it or no. If not for them, your companions Sisk and Liebgott surely would be dead. You called them to your service, and they served.” He savored his pause. “How is Private Sisk, incidentally? And Sergeant Grant? Or…” Dean saw him spread his hands. “Private Winchester?”
“They’re no part of this,” said Giddy. “They’re no part of anything.”
“They’re part of you,” interrupted Willand. “As are all those others. The fiercest furnace could not break such a thing. I cannot touch you, rune-reader, but you may still feel me. Perhaps I simply have not been aggressive enough. Perhaps you do not wish enough for me to stop.”
“You’re sick,” said Giddy.
“I am quite well,” said Willand, cheery as ever. “And so is Captain Winters, I believe. I hope the man takes good care of himself.”
Dean could see every line in Giddy’s body go rigid. Willand also perked up, more alert. “You faltered,“ he said softly. “You are hiding something. I did not see that until now.”
“There’s nothing to see,” said Giddy, ignoring Dean’s stall. “I haven’t lied to you.”
Willand laughed. “You are beginning to use it, even now, even as you curse and fear it. I will not keep you when there is so much to do.” All his medals clinked as he bowed from the waist. “Good day to you, Corporal Orland.”
Once Willand was gone, Dean fell back against the stall and sucked in air after so much shallow breathing. Giddy opened the door, which creaked on its hinges. “Jesus Christ,” he said, before Dean could speak. “He’s going after Captain Winters.”
“What was all that?” Dean pushed himself to his feet. “Giddy, I can’t help you if you don’t tell me anything.”
Giddy’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “He found me right after we got back from Normandy. Sometimes I dream about him.”
“Why’d he call you ‘gallows-gift’?” Dean brushed hay off his leg. “And what was that about ravens?”
Giddy raked his fingers through his hair. “No, that’s - we need to find Winters. We need to make sure he’s safe. I can never get there in time.”
“Whoa.” Dean grabbed his sleeve. “Who is that guy? Do you know what he can do?”
“You saw the nixie.” Giddy pulled away toward the stable door. “He called the lamia and the black dog. I don’t want to see what he’s saving for Winters.”
“Willand,” Dean muttered as he followed him out. “You called him Smith… Hang on.” He took Giddy’s elbow. “Is this seriously who I think it is?” Giddy tried pushed past him, but Dean blocked his way. “No. There are better ways to do this, and I’m not going up against something like that barely armed. We need help.”
Giddy choked out a laugh. “Right. Who could help us?”
Dean set his jaw. “I might have an idea.”
part four